



1 







THE DREAM, 



OTHER POEMS. 



THE HON— MRS. 'NORTON. 



ft 



DEDICATED TO HER GRACE 



THE DUCHESS OF SUTHERLAND. 



" We have one human heart, — 
All mortal thoughts confess a common home.'" 

Shelley. 



SECOND EDITION. 



LONDON: 
HENRY COLBURN, PUBLISH 

GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
1841. 










LONDON : 

Printed by William Clowes and Sons, 
Stamford Street. 






C N T E N T S > 



Preface . . . 

Dedication ..... 

THE DREAM 

Notes ..... 
THE CREOLE GIRL; or, The Physician's Story 
TWILIGHT ..... 
A DESTINY 



IX 

1 

73 

77 

97 

109 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES: 

The Chapel Royal St. James's, on the 10th February, 1840 125 
Notes ....... 131 

On seeing Anthony, the eldest Child of Lord and Lady Ashley 133 
The Dying Hour . . . . 137 

I Cannot Love Thee ! . . . .143 

The Poet's Choice . . . . 153 

The German Student's Love-Song .... 157 

The Hunting-Horn of Charlemagne . . . 162 

The Faithful Friend . . . . .167 

To Ferdinand Seymour . . . 175 

The Winter's Walk — (Written after walking with Mr. Rogers) 178 
The Reprieve . . . . 184 

The Faithful Guardian . . . . .189 

The Forsaken . . . . 193 

The Visionary Portrait . . . . .198 

The Picture of Sappho . . . . 202 

The Sense of Beauty . . . . .206 

a 2 



IV CONTENTS. 




The Mother's Heart . . . . . 


PAGE 

212 


May-Day, 1837 


216 


The Fever-Dream . . . . . . 


219 


To the Lady H. 0. . 


223 


The Fallen Leaves . . . . . 


227 


The Autumn Wind ...... 


230 


The Blind Man's Bride .... 


233 


The Widow to her Son's Betrothed 


237 


The Tryst 


241 


The Banner of the Covenanters 


243 


The Rock of the Betrayed .... 


249 


The Lament for Shuil Donald's Daughter . 


261 


Weep not for Him that Dieth ! 


264 


The Child of Earth .... 


266 


The Christening of my Brother's Infant Son 


269 


The Mother's Last Watch .... 


. 275 


SONNETS 


. 279 



A Voice from the Factories. Dedicated to the Right 
Hon. Lord Ashley (reprinted from the anonymous edi- 
tion of 1836) . . . . . . 



303 






PREFACE 



SECOND EDITION. 



Called upon by my Publisher to prepare, somewhat 
hurriedly, for a Second Edition of the present volume, I 
have endeavoured to avail myself (as far as the time would 
permit) of various corrections and alterations suggested to 
me by known and unknown friends, in the hope of ren- 
dering my book as worthy as possible of the indulgence 
with which it has been received. 

Unable in any other manner to acknowledge the nu- 
merous communications which have reached me on the 
subject of the principal Poem, I beg here to offer my 
thanks to the Writers, and more especially to the Critic 
who, signing himself Amicus, has nevertheless left me in 
doubt as to which of my old friends and most agreeable 
companions I have ungratefully forgotten in his person. 



Though I have not been able, at this moment, to follow all 
the hints I have received, I trust hereafter to prove that 
none of them have been thrown away. 

The present volume includes a reprint of a short poem, 
entitled " A Voice from the Factories," which appeared 
in 1836, under the auspices of my good friend Mr. Mur- 
ray, of Albemarle Street, who undertook to publish it 
without my name. To that anonymous edition a Preface 
was appended in the form of an introductory letter ad- 
dressed to Lord Ashley, which now, in its altered form, 
I have seen reason to omit ; claiming permission only to re- 
tain, in the Dedication, a name which, to its eternal honour, 
can never be disconnected from the subject, nor from the 
memory of earnest and increasingly successful efforts in 
behalf of the feeble and friendless. 

A compliment has been lately paid me on the other side 
of the Atlantic, which I confess I have received very un- 
willingly. I allude to the reprinting of my published 
poem in an American paper — a huge mammoth, a very 
boa-constrictor of a paper — which has contrived to swallow 
it all. Now, anxious as I naturally am to become ac- 
quainted with, and popular among, my friends in " the 



Far West/' yet, if it so pleased them, I could wish to be 
more formally introduced. I would fain not appear before 
Bryant's countrymen and fellow- citizens in such a very 
careless undress ; indeed, this sort of dealing is hard, both 
as respects Author and Publisher, in England: hard on 
the Author, who has no opportunity of revising and cor- 
recting the errors of his work, and trebly hard on the Pub- 
lisher, who sees a copyright, which is his private property, 
most unceremoniously appropriated, just after he has pro- 
bably been at considerable expense to produce the work 
in what he considers a fitting manner. 

Of a still more equivocal nature is the compliment (if 
compliment it can be called) of printing and publishing 
poems as mine, which are not from my pen, and of whose 
authorship I know nothing (which is the mode adopted by 
the Editor of the " New World"). These poems may be 
as good, or better than those which I am in the habit of 
writing, but they are not mine, and therefore I would 
rather they were not attributed to me. Moreover, the 
" Melancholy Musings" given to me, by no means express 
my real sentiments. I am thankful to say that I still 
believe in " Love" and " Friendship" quite as firmly as 
in the outset of my life ; and that, far from taking that 



saucily high tone with the " meteor, Fame/' and treating 
her with a sort of despairing contempt, I am reasonably 
anxious that what I write should be read and approved of; 
willing to take all pains to attain that desirable end; and 
at this moment full of hope and interest respecting the 
success of this very volume, and the chance of my having, 
perhaps, to correct a third edition, through the indulgence 
of my readers. 

London, 29th October, 1840. 



DEDICATION. 



HER GRACE THE DUCHESS OF SUTHERLAND, 



Once more, my harp ! once more, although I thought 
Never to wake thy silent strings again, 

A wandering dream thy gentle chords have wrought, 
And my sad heart, which long hath dwelt in pain, 

Soars, like a wild bird from a cypress bough, 

Into the poet's Heaven, and leaves dull grief below ! 



And unto Thee — the beautiful and pure — 

Whose lot is cast amid that busy world 
Where only sluggish Dulness dwells secure, 

And Fancy's generous wing is faintly furl'd ; 
To thee — whose friendship kept its equal truth 
Through the most dreary hour of my embitter'd youth — 



x DEDICATION. 

I dedicate the lay. Ah ! never bard, 

In days when Poverty was twin with song ; 

Nor wandering harper, lonely and ill-starr'd, 

Cheer'd by some castle's chief, and harbonr'd long ; 

Not Scott's " Last Minstrel," in his trembling lays, 

Woke with a warmer heart the earnest meed of praise ! 



For easy are the alms the rich man spares 

To sons of Genius, by misfortune bent, 
But thou gav'st me, what woman seldom dares, 

Belief — in spite of many a cold dissent — 
When, slandered and maligned, I stood apart, 
From those whose bounded power, hath wrung, not crushed, 
my heart. 



Then, then, when cowards lied away my name, 
And scoff'd to see me feebly stem the tide ; 

When some were kind on whom I had no claim, 
And some forsook on whom my love relied, 

And some, who might have battled for my sake, 

Stood off in doubt to see what turn "the world" would take — 



DEDICATION. 

Thou gavest me that the poor do give the poor, 
Kind words, and holy wishes, and true tears ; 

The loved, the near of kin, could do no more, 

Who changed not with the gloom of varying years, 

But clung the closer when I stood forlorn, 

And blunted Slander's dart with their indignant scorn. 



For they who credit crime are they who feel 
Their own hearts weak to unresisted sin ; 

Mem'ry, not judgment, prompts the thoughts which steal 
O'er minds like these, an easy faith to win ; 

And tales of broken truth are still believed 

Most readily by those who have themselves deceived. 



But, like a white swan down a troubled stream, 

Whose ruffling pinion hath the power to fling 
\ 
\ Aside the turbid drops which darkly gleam 

And mar the freshness of her snowy wing, — 

So Thou, with queenly grace and gentle pride, 

Along the world's dark waves in purity dost glide; 



x ii DEDICATION. 

Tliy pale and pearly cheek was never made 
To crimson with a faint false-hearted shame ; 

Thou didst not shrink, — of hitter tongues afraid, 
Who hunt in packs the object of their blame ; 

To Thee the sad denial still held true, 

For from thine own good thoughts thy heart its mercy 
drew. 



And, though my faint and tributary rhymes 
Add nothing to the glory of thy day, 

Yet every Poet hopes that after-times 
Shall set some value on his votive lay, — 

And I would fain one gentle deed record 

Among the many such with which thy life is stored. 



So, when these lines, made in a mournful hour, 
Are idly open'd to the Stranger's eye, 

A dream of Thee, aroused by Fancy's power, 
Shall be the first to wander floating by ; 

And they who never saw thy lovely face, 

Shall pause, — to conjure up a vision of its grace ! 



THE DREAM. 



THE DREAM. 



'Twas summer eve; the changeful beams still play'd 
On the fir-bark and through the beechen shade; 
Still with soft crimson glow'd each floating cloud; 
Still the stream glitter' d where the willow bow'd ; 
Still the pale moon sate silent and alone, 
Nor yet the stars had rallied round her throne ; 
Those diamond courtiers, who, while yet the West 
Wears the red shield above his dying breast, 
Dare not assume the loss they all desire, 
Nor pky their homage to the fainter fire, 
But wait in trembling till the Sun's fair light 
Fading, shall leave them free to welcome Night! 



So when some Chief, whose name through realms afar 
Was still the watchword of successful war, 



4 THE DREAM. 

Met by the fatal hour which waits for all, 

Is, on the field he rallied, forced to fall, 

The conquerors pause to watch his parting breath. 

Awed by the terrors of that mighty death ; 

Nor dare the meed of victory to claim, 

Nor lift the standard to a meaner name, 

Till every spark of soul hath ebb'd away, 

Leaving, what was a hero, common clay ! 



Oh! Twilight! Spirit that dost render birth 
To dim enchantments ; melting Heaven with Earth, 
Leaving on craggy hills and running streams 
A softness like the atmosphere of dreams ; 
Thy hour to all is welcome ! Faint and sweet 
Thy light falls round the peasant's homeward feet, 
Who, slow returning from his task of toil, 
Sees the low sunset gild the cultured soil, .% 

And, tho' such radiance round him brightly glows, 
Marks the small spark his cottage window throws. 
Still as his heart forestals his weary pace, 
Fondly he dreams of each familiar face, 
Recalls the treasures of his narrow life, 
His rosy children, and his sunburnt wife, 



THE DREAM. 

To whom Ms coming is the chief event 
Of simple days in cheerful labour spent. 
The rich man's chariot hath gone whirling past, 
And those poor cottagers have only cast 
One careless glance on all that show of pride, 
Then to their tasks turn'd quietly aside ; 
But him they wait for, him they welcome home, 
Fixed sentinels look forth to see him come ; 
The fagot sent for when the fire grew dim, 
The frugal meal prepared, are all for him ; 
For him the watching of that sturdy boy, 
For him those smiles of tenderness and joy, 
For him, — who plods his sauntering way along, 
Whistling the fragment of some village song ! 



Dear art thou to the lover, thou sweet light, 
Fair fleeting sister of the mournful night ! 
As in impatient hope he stands apart, 
Companion'd only by his beating heart, 
And with an eager fancy oft beholds 
The vision of a white robe's fluttering folds 
Flit through the grove, and gain the open mead, 
True to the hour by loving hearts agreed ! 



6 THE DREAM. 

At length she comes. The evening's holy grace 
Mellows the glory of her radiant face ; 
The curtain of that daylight faint and pale 
Hangs round her like the shrouding of a veil ; 
As, turning with a bashful timid thought, 
From the dear welcome she herself hath sought, 
Her shadowy profile drawn against the sky 
Cheats, while it charms, his fond adoring eye. 



Oh ! dear to him, to all, since first the flowers 
Of happy Eden's consecrated bowers 
Heard the low breeze along the branches play, 
And God's voice bless the cool hour of the day. ( J ) 
For though that glorious Paradise be lost, 
Though earth by blighting storms be roughly cross'd, 
Though the long curse demands the tax of sin, 
And the day's sorrows with the day begin, 
That hour, once sacred to God's presence, still 
Keeps itself calmer from the touch of ill, 
The holiest hour of earth. Then toil doth cease — 
Then from the yoke the oxen find release — 
Then man rests pausing from his many cares, 
And the world teems with children's sunset prayers ; 



THE DREAM. 

Then innocent things seek out their quiet rest, 
The babe sinks slumbering on its mother's breast ; 
The birds beneath their leafy covering creep, 
Yea, even the flowers fold up their buds in sleep : 
And angels, floating by, on radiant wings, 
Hear the low sounds the breeze of evening brings, 
Catch the sweet incense as it floats along, 
The infant's prayer, the mother's cradle-song, 
And bear the holy gifts to realms afar, 
As things too sacred for this fallen star. 



At such an hour, on such a summer night, 
Silent and calm in its transparent light, 
A widow'd parent watch'd her slumbering child, 
On whose young face the sixteenth summer smiled. 
Fair was the face she watch'd ! Nor less, because 
Beauty's perfection seem'd to make a pause, 
And wait, on that smooth brow, some further touch, 
Some spell from Time, — the great magician, — such 
As calls the closed bud out of hidden gloom, 
And bids it wake to glory, light, and bloom. 
Girlish as yet, but with the gentle grace 
Of a young fawn in its low resting-place, 



8 THE DREAM. 

Her folded limbs -were lying : from her hand 

A group of wild-flowers, — Nature's brightest band, 

Of all that laugh along the Summer fields, 

Of all the sunny hedge -row freely yields, 

Of all that in the wild-wood darkly hide, 

Or on the thyme-bank wave in breezy pride, — 

Show'd, that the weariness which closed in sleep 

So tranquil, child-like, innocent, and deep, 

Nor festal gaiety, nor toilsome hours, 

Had brought ; but, like a flower among the flowers, 

She had been wandering 'neath the Summer sky, 

Youth on her lip and gladness in her eye, 

Twisting the wild rose from its native thorn, 

And the blue scabious from the sunny corn ; 

Smiling and singing like a spirit fair 

That walk'd the world, but had no dwelling there. 

And still (as though their faintly -scented breath 

Preserv'd a meek fidelity in death) 

Each late imprison'd blossom fondly lingers 

Within the touch of her unconscious fingers, 

Though, languidly unclasp'd, that hand no more 

Guards its possession of the rifled store. 



THE DREAM. 

So wearily she lay ; so sweetly slept ; 
So by her side fond watch the mother kept ; 
And, as above her gentle child she bent, 
So like they seem'd in form and lineament, 
You might have deem'd her face its shadow gave 
To the clear mirror of a fountain's wave ; 
Only in this they differ 'd; that, while one 
Was warm and radiant as the Summer sun, 
The other's smile had more a moonlight play, 
For many tears had wept its glow away ; 
Yet was she fair ,* of loveliness so true, 
That time, which faded, never could subdue : 
And though the sleeper, like a half-blown rose, 
Show'd bright as angels in her soft repose, 
Though bluer veins ran through each snowy lid, 
Curtaining sweet eyes, by long dark lashes hid — 
Eyes that as yet had never learnt to weep, 
But woke up smiling, like a child's, from sleep ; — 
Though fainter lines were pencill'd on the brow, 
Which cast soft shadow on the orbs below; 
Though deeper colour flush'd her youthful cheek, 
In its smooth curve more joyous and less meek, 
And fuller seem'd the small and crimson mouth, 
With teeth like those that glitter in the South, — 

b 3 



10 THE DREAM. 

She had but youth's superior brightness, such 
As the skill' d painter gives with flattering touch 
When he would picture every lingering grace 
Which once shone brighter in some copied face ; 
And it was compliment, whene'er she smiled, 
To say, " Thou 'rt like thy mother, my fair child ! ' 



Sweet is the image of the brooding dove ! — 
Holy as Heaven a mother's tender love ! 
The love of many prayers and many tears, 
Which changes not with dim declining years, — 
The only love which on this teeming earth 
Asks no return from Passion's wayward birth ; 
The only love that, with a touch divine, 
Displaces from the heart's most secret shrine 
The idol Self. Oh ! prized beneath thy due 
When life's untried affections all are new, — 
Love, from whose calmer hope and holier rest 
(Like a fledged bird, impatient of the nest) 
The human heart, rebellious, springs to seek 
Delights more vehement, in ties more weak; 
How strange to us appears, in after-life, 
That term of mingled carelessness and strife, 



THE DREAM. \\ 

When guardianship so gentle gall'd our pride, 
When it was holiday to leave thy side, 
When, with dull ignorance that would not learn, 
We lost those hours that never can return — 
Hours, whose most sweet conrmunion Nature meant 
Should be in confidence and kindness spent, 
That we (hereafter mourning) might believe 
In human faith, though all around deceive ; 
Might weigh against the sad and startling crowd 
Of ills which wound the weak and chill the proud, 
Of woes 'neath which (despite of stubborn will, 
Philosophy's vain boast, and erring skill) 
The strong heart downward like a willow bends, 
Failure of love, — and treachery of friends, — 
Our recollections of the undefiled, 
The sainted tie, of parent and of child ! 



Oh ! happy days ! Oh years that glided by, 
Scarce chronicled by one poor passing sigh ! 
When the dark storm sweeps past us, and the soul 
Struggles with fainting strength to reach the goal ; 
When the false baits that lured us only cloy, 
What would we give to grasp your vanish'd joy ! 



12 THE DREAM. 

From the cold quicksands of Life's treacherous shore 
The backward light our anxious eyes explore, 
Measure the miles our wandering feet have come, 
Sinking heart-weary, far away from home, 
Recall the voice that whisper'd love and peace, 
The smile that bid our early sorrows cease, 
And long to bow our grieving heads, and weep 
Low on the gentle breast that lull'd us first to sleep ! 



Ah ! bless'd are they for whom 'mid all their pains 
That faithful and unalter'd love remains ; 
Who, Life wreck'd round them, — hunted from their rest, — 
And, by all else forsaken or distress'd, — 
Claim, in one heart, their sanctuary and shrine — 
As I, my Mother, claim'd my place in thine ! 



Oft, since that hour, in sadness I retrace 
My childhood's vision of thy calm sweet face ; 
Oft see thy form, its mournful beauty shrouded 

In thy black weeds, and coif of widow's woe ; 
Thy dark expressive eyes all dim and clouded 

By that deep wretchedness the lonely know : 



THE DREAM. 13 

Stifling thy grief, to hear some weary task 

Conn'd by unwilling lips, with listless air, 
Hoarding thy means, lest future need might ask 

More than the widow's pittance then could spare. 
Hidden, forgotten by the great and gay, 

Enduring sorrow, not by fits and starts, 
But the long self-denial, day by day, 

Alone amidst thy brood of careless hearts ! 
Striving to guide, to teach, or to restrain 

The young rebellious spirits crowding round, 
Who saw not, knew not, felt not for thy pain, 

And could not comfort — yet had power to wound ! 
Ah ! how my selfish heart, which since hath grown 
Familiar with deep trials of its own, 
With riper judgment looking to the past, 
Regrets the careless days that flew so fast, 
Stamps with remorse each wasted hour of time, 
And darkens every folly into crime ! 



Warriors and statesmen have then meed of praise, 
And what they do or suffer men record ; 

But the long sacrifice of woman's days 

Passes without a thought — without a word ; 



14 THE DREAM. 

And many a holy struggle for the sake 

Of duties sternly, faithfully fulfill' d, — 
For which the anxious mind must watch and wake, 

And the strong feelings of the heart be still' d, — 
Goes by unheeded as the summer wind, 
And leaves no memory and no trace behind ! 
Yet, it may be, more lofty courage dwells 

In one meek heart which braves an adverse fate, 
Than his, whose ardent soul indignant swells 

Warm'd by the fight, or cheer'd through high debate : 
The Soldier dies surrounded ; — could he live 
Alone to suffer, and alone to strive ? 

Answer, ye graves, whose suicidal gloom 
Shows deeper horror than a common tomb ! 
Who sleep within ? The men who would evade 
An unseen lot of which they felt afraid. 
Embarrassment of means, which work'd annoy, — 
A past remorse, — a future blank of joy, — 
The sinful rashness of a blind despair, — 
These were the strokes which sent your victims there. 

In many a village churchyard's simple grave, 
Where all unmark'd the cypress-branches wave ; 



THE DREAM. 15 

In many a vault where Death could only claim 

The brief inscription of a woman's name ; 

Of different ranks, and different degrees, 

From daily labour to a life of ease, 

(From the rich wife who through the weary day 

Wept in her jewels, griefs unceasing prey, 

To the poor soul who trudged o'er marsh and moor, 

And with her baby begg'd from door to door, — ) 

Lie hearts, which, ere they found that last release, 

Had known no nights of rest, no days of peace ; 

Hearts, whose long struggle through unpitied years 

None saw but He who marks the mourner's tears ; 

The obscurely noble ! who evaded not 

The woe which He had will'd should be their lot, 

But nerved themselves to bear ! 

Of such art thou, 
My Mother ! With thy calm and holy brow, 
And high devoted heart, which suffer'd still 
Unmurmuring, through each degree of ill. 
And, because Fate hath will'd that mine should be 
A Poet's soul (at least in my degree),— 
And that my verse would faintly shadow forth 
What I have seen of pure unselfish worth,-— 



16 THE DREAM. 

Therefore I speak of Thee ; that those who read 
That trust in woman, which is still my creed, 
Thy early-widow'd image may recall 
And greet thy nature as the type of all ! 

Enough ! With eyes of fond unwearied love 
The Mother of my story watch'd above 
Her sleeping child; and, as she views the grace 
And blushing beauty of that girlish face, 
Her thoughts roam back through change of time and tide, 
Since first Heaven sent the blessing by her side. 

In that sweet vision she again receives 

The snow-white cradle, where that tiny head 
Lay, like a small bud folded in its leaves, 

Eoster'd with dew by tears of fondness shed ; 
Each infantine event, each dangerous hour 

Which pass'd with threatening o'er its fragile form, 
Her hope, her anguish, as the tender flower 

Bloom'd to the sun, or sicken' d in the storm, 
In memory's magic mirror glide along, 

And scarce she notes the different scene around, 
And scarce her lips refrain the cradle-song 

Which sooth'd that infant with its lulling sound ! 






THE DREAM. 17 

But the dream changes ; quiet years roll on ; 

That dawn of frail existence fleets away, 
And she beholds beneath the summer sun 

A blessed sight ; a little child at play. 
The soft light falls upon its golden hair, 

And shows a brow intelligently mild ; 
No more a cipher in this world of care, 

Love cheers and chides that happy conscious child. 
No more unheeding of her watchful love, 

Pride to excel, its docile spirit stirs ; 
Regret and hope its tiny bosom move, 

And looks of fondness brightly answer hers ; 
O'er the green meadow, and the broomy hill, 

In restless joy it bounds and darts along ; 
Or through the breath of evening, low and still, 

Carols with mirthful voice its welcome song. 



Again the vision changes ; from her view 

The Child's dear love and antic mirth are gone; 

But, in their stead, with cheek of roseate hue, 
And fair slight form, and low and silvery tone, 

Rises the sweetest spirit Thought can call 

From memory's distant worlds — the fairy Girl ; 



18 THE DREAM. 

Whose heart her childish pleasures still enthrall, 

Whose unbound hair still floats in careless curl, 
But in whose blue and meekly lifted eyes, 

And in whose shy, though sweet and cordial smile, 
And in whose changeful blushes, dimly rise 

Shadows and lights that were not seen erewhile : 
Shadows and lights that speak of woman's love, 

Of all that makes or mars her fate below ; 
Mysterious prophecies, which Time must prove 

More bright in glory, or more dark with woe ! 
And that soft vision also wanders by, 

Melting in fond and innocent smiles away, 
Till the loved Real meets the watchful eye 

Of her who thus re call' d a former day ; 
The gentle daughter, for whose precious sake 

Her widow'd heart had struggled with its pain, 
And still through lonely grief refused to break, 

Because that tie to Earth did yet remain. 
Now, as she fondly gazed, a few meek tears 

Stole down her cheek ; for she that slumber'd there. 
The beautiful, the loved of many years, 

A bride betroth'd must leave her fostering care ; 
Woo'd in another's home apart to dwell, — 
Oh ! might that other love but half as well ! 



THE DREAM. 19 

As if the mournful wish had touch'd her heart, 
The slumbering maiden woke, with sudden start ; 
Turn'd, with a dazzled and intense surprise, 
On that fond face her bright, bewilder'd eyes ; 
Gazed round on each familiar object near, 
As though she doubted yet if sense was clear ; 
Cover'd her brow and sigh'd, as though to wake 
Had power some spell of happy thought to break ; 
Then murmur'd, in a low and earnest tone, 
" Oh ! is that blessed dream for ever gone ? " 



Strange is the power of dreams ! Who hath not felt. 
When in the morning light such visions melt, 
How the veil'cl soul, though struggling to be free. 
Ruled by that deep, unfathom'd mystery, 
Wakes, haunted by the thoughts of good or ill, 
Whose shadowy influence pursues us still ? 



Sometimes remorse doth weigh our spirits down; 
Some crime committed earns Heaven's angriest frown; 
Some awful sin, in which the tempted heart 
Hath scarce, perhaps, forborne its waking part. 



20 THE DREAM. 

Brings dreams of judgment; loud the thunders roll, 
The heavens shrink blacken' d like a flaming scroll ; 
We faint, we die, beneath the avenging rod, 
And vainly hide from our ofFended God. 
For oh ! though Fancy change our mortal lot, 
And rule our slumbers, Conscience sleepeth not ; 
That strange sad dial, by its own true light, 
Points to our thoughts, how dark soe'er the night, 
Still by our pillow watchful guard it keeps, 
And bids the sinner tremble while he sleeps. 



Sometimes, with fearful dangers doom'd to cope, 
'Reft of each wild and visionary hope, 
Stabb'd with a thousand wounds, we struggle still, 
The hand that tortures, powerless to kill. 
Sometimes 'mid ocean storms, in fearful strife, 
We stem the wave, and shrieking, gasp for life, 
While crowding round us, faces rise and gleam, 
Some known and loved, some, pictures of our dream ; 
High on the buoyant waters wildly toss'd — 
Low in its foaming caverns darkly lost — 
Those flitting forms the dangerous hour partake, 
Cling to our aid, or suffer for our sake. 



THE DREAM. 21 

Conscious of present life, the slumbering soul 
Still floats us onward, as trie billows roll, 
Till, snatch'd from death, we seem to touch the strand, 
Rise on the shoreward wave, and dash to land ! 
Alone we come : the forms whose wild array 
Gleam'd round us while we struggled, fade away, — 
We know not, reck not, who the danger shared, 
But, vaguely dreaming, feel that we are spared. 



Sometimes a grief, of fond affection born, 
Gnaws at our heart, and bids us weep till morn ; 
Some anguish, copied from our waking fears, 
Wakes the eternal fount of human tears, 
Sends us to watch some vision'd bed of death, 
Hold the faint hand, and catch the parting breath, 
Where those we prized the most, and loved the best, 
Seem darkly sinking to the grave's long rest ; 
Lo ! in our arms they fade, they faint, they die, 
Before our eyes the funeral train sweeps by ; 
We hear the orphan's sob — the widow's wail — 
O'er our dim senses woeful thoughts prevail, 
Till, with a burst of grief, the spell we break, 
And, weeping for th' imagined loss, awake. 



22 THE DREAM. 

Ah me ! from dreams like these aroused at length. 
How leaps the spirit to its former strength ! 
What memories crowd the newly conscious brain, 
What gleams of rapture, and what starts of pain ! 
Till from the soul the heavy mists stand clear, 
All wanes and fades that seem'd so darkly drear, 
The sun's fair rays those shades of death destroy, 
And passionate thankfulness and tears of joy 
Swell at our hearts, as, gazing on his beam, 
We start, and cry aloud, " Thank Heaven, 'twas but a 
dream ! " 

But there are visions of a fairer kind, 
Thoughts fondly cherish'd by the slumbering mind, 
Which, when they vanish from the waking brain, 
We close our eyes, and long to dream again. 
Their dim voice calls to our forsaken side 
Those who betray'd us, seeming true and tried ; 
Those whom the fast receding waves of time 
Have floated from us ; those who in the prime 
And glory of our young life's eagle flight 
Shone round like rays, encircling us with light, 
And gave the bright similitude of truth 
To fair illusions — vanish'd with our youth. 



THE DREAM. 23 

They bring again the tryst of early love, 

(That passionate hope, all other hopes above !) 

Bid the pale hair, long shrouded in the grave, 

Round the young head in floating ringlets wave, 

And fill the air with echoes. Gentle words, 

Low laughter, and the singing of sweet birds, 

Come round us then ; and drooping of light boughs, 

Whose shadow could not cool our burning brows, 

And lilac-blossoms, scenting the warm air, 

And long laburnums, fragile, bright, and fair ; 

And murmuring breezes through the green leaves straying, 

And rippling waters in the sunshine playing, 

All that around our slumbering sense can fling 

The glory of some half-forgotten spring ! 

They bring again the fond approving gaze 

Of old true friends, who mingled love with praise ; 

When Fame (that cold bright guiding-star below) 

Took from affection's light a borrow'd glow, — 

And, strong in all the might of earnest thought, 

Through the long studious night untired we wrought, 

That others might the morning hour beguile, 

With the fond triumph of their wondering smile. 

What though those dear approving smiles be gone, 

What though we strive neglected and alone, 



24 THE DREAM. 

What though no voice now mourns our hope's alloy, 
Nor in the hour of triumph gives us joy? 
In dreams the days return when this was not, 
When strong affection sooth'd our toilsome lot : 
Cheer'd, loved, admonish' d, lauded, we aspire. 
And the sick soul regains its former fire. 



Beneath the influence of this fond spell, 
Happy, contented, bless'd, we seem to dwell; 
Sweet faces shine with love's own tender ray, 
Which frown, or coldly turn from us, by day ; 
The lonely orphan hears a parent's voice ; 
Sad childless mothers once again rejoice; 
The poor deserted seems a happy bride ; 
And the long parted wander side by side. 



Ah, vain deceit ! Awaking with a start, 
Sick grow the beatings of the troubled heart ; 
Silence, like some dark mantle, drops around, 
Quenching th' imagined voice's welcome sound ; 
Again the soul repeats its old farewells, 
Again recalls sad hours and funeral knells ; 



THE DREAM. 25 

Again, as daylight opens on their view, 
The orphan shrinks, the mother mourns anew ; 
Till clear we feel, as fades the morning star, 
How left, how lonely, how oppress'd we are ! 



And other dreams exist, more vague and bright 
Than memory ever brought to cheer the night; — 
Most to the young and happy do they come, 
To those who know no shelter but of home ; 
To those of whom the inspired writer spoke, 
When from his lips the words prophetic broke, 
Which (conscious of the strong and credulous spell 
Experience only in the heart can quell) 
Promised the nearer glimpse of perfect truth 
Not to cold wisdom, but to fervent youth ; 
Each, in their measure, caught its fitful gleams, — 
The young saw visions, and the old dream'd dreams. ( 2 ) 



The young ! Oh ! what should wandering fancy bring 
In life's first spring-time but the thoughts of spring? 
Worlds without winter, blooming amaranth bowers, 
Garlands of brightness wreath'd from changeless flowers ; 

c 



26 THE DREAM. 

Where shapes like angels wander to and fro, 

Unwing'd, hut glorious, in the noontide glow, 

Which steeps the hills, the dales, the earth, the sea, 

In one soft flood of golden majesty. 

In this world, — so create, — no sighs nor tears, — 

No sadness brought with lapse of varying years, — 

No cold betrayal of the trusting heart, — 

No knitting up of love fore-doom'd to part, — 

No pain, deformity, nor pale disease, — 

No wars, — no tyranny, — no fears that freeze 

The rapid current of the restless blood, — 

Nor effort scorn'd, — nor act misunderstood, — 

No dark remorse for ever-haunting sin, — 

But all at peace without — at rest within ; 

And hopes which gild Thought's wildest waking hours, 

Scatter'd around us carelessly as flowers. 



Oh ! Paradise, in vain didst thou depart ; 
Thine image still is stamp'd on every heart ! 
Though mourning man in vain may seek to trace 
The site of that which was his dwelling-place, 
Though the four glittering rivers now divide 
No realms of beauty with their rolling tide, ( 3 ) 



THE DREAM. 27 

Each several life yet opens with the view 
Of that unblighted world where Adam drew 
The breath of being : in each several mind, 
However cramp'd, and fetter'd, and confined, 
The innate power of beauty folded lies, 
And, like a bud beneath the summer skies, 
Blooms out in youth through many a radiant day, 
Though in life's winter frost it dies away. 



From such a vision, bright with all the fame 
Her youth, her innocence, her hope, could frame, 
Arose the maid : and, when her shadowy gaze 
Had lost the dazzled look of wild amaze 
Turn'd on her mother when she first awoke, 
Thus to her questioning glance she answering spoke :■ 



" Methought, oh ! gentle Mother, by thy side 
I dwelt no more as now, but through a wide 
And sweet world wander'd ; nor even then alone ; 
For ever in that dream's soft light stood one, — 
I know not who, — yet most familiar seem'd 
The fond companionship of which I dream'd ! 

c 2 



28 THE DREAM. 

A Brother's love, is but a name to me ; 

A Father's, brighten'd not my infancy ; 

To me, in childhood's years, no stranger's face 

Took, from long habit, friendship's holy grace ; 

My life hath still been lone, and needed not, 

Heaven knows, more perfect love than was my lot 

In thy dear heart : how dream'd I then, sweet Mother, 

Of any love but thine, who knew no other ? 



" We seem'd, this shadow and myself, to be 
Together by the blue and boundless sea : 
No settled home was present to my thought — 
No other form my clouded fancy brought ; 
This one Familiar Presence still beguiled 
My every thought, and look'd on me and smiled. 
Fair stretch'd in beauty lay the glittering strand, 
With low green copses sloping from the land ; 
And tangled underwood, and sunny fern, 
And flowers whose humble names none cared to learn, 
Small starry wild flowers, white and gold and blue, 
With leaves turn'd crimson by th' autumnal hue, 
Bask'd in the fervour of the noontide glow, 
Whose hot rays pierced the thirsty roots below. 



THE DREAM. 29 

The floating nautilus rose clear and pale, 

As though, a spirit trimm'd its fairy sail, 

White and transparent ; and beyond it gleam'd 

Such light as never yet on Ocean beam'd : 

And pink-lipp'd shells, and many-colour'd weeds, 

And long brown bulbous things like jasper beads, 

And ghstening pearls in beauty faint and fair, 

And all things strange, and wonderful, and rare, 

Whose true existence travellers make known, 

Seem'd scatter'd there, and easily my own. 

And then we wove our ciphers in the sands, 

All fondly intertwined by loving hands ; 

And laugh'd to see the rustling snow-white spray 

Creep o'er the names, and wash their trace away. 

And the storm came not, though the white foam curPd 

In lines of brightness far along the coast ; 
Though many a ship, with swelling sails unfurl'd, 

From the mid-sea to sheltering haven cross'd ; 
Though the wild billows heaved, and rose, and broke, 

One o'er the other with a restless sound, 
And the deep spirit of the wind awoke, 

Ruffling in wrath each glassy verdant mound ; 
While onward roll'd that army of huge waves, 

Until the foremost, with exulting roar, 



30 THE DREAM. 

Rose, proudly crested, o'er his brother slaves, 

And dash'd triumphant on the groaning shore ! 
For then the Moon rose up, Night's mournful Queen. 

i Walking with white feet o'er the troubled Sea/ 
And all grew still again, as she had been 

Heaven's messenger to bring Tranquillity ; 
Till, pale and tender, on the ghstening main 
She sank and smiled like one who loves in vain. 
And still we linger'd by that shadowy strand, 
Happy, yet full of thought, hand link'd in hand ; 
The hush'd waves rippling softly at our feet, 
The night-breeze freshening o'er the Summer's heat ; 
With our hearts beating, and our gazing eyes 
Fix'd on the star-light of those deep blue skies, 
Blessing e the year, the hour, the place, the time f ( 4 ) 
While sounded, faint and far, some turret's midnight chime. 



" It pass'd, that vision of the Ocean's might ! 

I know not how, for in my slumbering mind 
There was no movement, all was shifting light, 

Through which we floated with the wandering wind ; 
And, still together, in a different scene, 
We look'd on England's woodland, fresh and green. 



THE DREAM. 31 

" No perfume of the cultured rose was there, 
Wooing the senses with its garden smell, — 
Nor snow-white lily, — call'd so proudly fair, 

Though by the poor man's cot she loves to dwell, 
Nor finds his little garden scant of room 
To bid her stately buds in beauty bloom ; — 
Nor jasmin, with her pale stars shining through 
The myrtle darkness of her leaf's green hue, — 
Nor heliotrope, whose grey and heavy wreath 
Mimics the orchard blossoms' fruity breath, — 
Nor clustering dahlia, with its scentless flowers 
Cheating the heart through autumn's faded hours, — 
Nor bright chrysanthemum, whose train'd array 
Still makes the rich man's winter path look gay, 
And bows its hardy head when wild winds blow, 
To free its petals from the fallen snow ; — 
Nor yet carnation ;" — 

(Thou, beloved of all 
The plants that thrive at Art or Nature's call, 
By one who greets thee with a weary sigh 
As the dear friend of happy days gone by; 
By one who names thee last, but loves thee first, 
Of all the flowers a garden ever nursed ; 



32 THE DREAM. 

The mute remembrancer and gentle token 

Of links which heavy hands have roughly broken, 

Welcomed through many a Summer with the same 

Unalter'd gladness as when first ye came, 

And welcomed still, though — as in later years 

We often welcome pleasant tilings — with tears !) 

I wander ! In the Dream these had no place, — 
Nor Sorrow : — all was Nature's freshest grace. 

" There, wild geranium, with its woolly stem 

And aromatic breath, perfumed the glade ; 
And fairy speedwell, like some sapphire gem, 

Lighted with purple sparks the hedge-row's shade; 
And woodbine, with her tinted calyxes, 

And dog-rose, glistening with the dews of morn, 
And tangled wreaths of tufted clematis, 

Whose blossoms pale the careless eye may scorn, 
(As green and light her fairy mantles fall 
To hide the rough hedge or the crumbling wall,) 
But in whose breast the laden wild-bees dive 
For the best riches of their teeming hive : 



THE DREAM. 33 

" There, sprang the sunny cricket ; there, was spread 
The fragile silver of the spider's thread, 
Stretching from blade to blade of emerald grass, 
Unbroken, till some human footstep pass ; 
There, by the rippling stream that murmur'd on, 
Now seen, now hidden — half in light, half Sun — 
The darting dragon-fly, with sudden gleam, 
Shot, as it went, a gold and purple beam ; 
And the fish leap'd within the deeper pool, 
And the green trees stretch'd out their branches cool, 
Where many a bird hush'd in her peopled nest 
The unfledged darlings of her feather'd breast, 
Listening her mate's clear song, in that sweet grove 
Where all around breathed happiness and love ! 



" And while we talk'd the summer hours flew fast, 
As hours may fly, with those whose love is young ; 

Who fear no future, and who know no past, 
Dating existence from the hope that sprung 

Up in their hearts with such a sudden light, 

That all beyond shows dark and blank as night. 

c 3 



34 THE DREAM. 

" Until methought we trod a wide flat heath, 

Where yew and cypress darkly seem'd to wave 
O'er countless tombs, so beautiful, that death 

Seem'd here to make a garden of the grave ! 
All that is holy, tender, full of grace, 

Was sculptured on the monuments around, 
And many a line the musing eye could trace, 

Which spoke unto the heart without a sound. 
There lay the warrior and the son of song, 

And there — in silence till the judgment-day — 
The orator, whose all-persuading tongue 

Had moved the nations with resistless sway : 
There slept pale men whom science taught to climb 

Restlessly upward all their labouring youth ; 
Who left, half conquer'd, secrets which in time 

Burst on mankind in ripe and glorious truth. 
He that had gazed upon the steadfast stars, 

And could foretel the dark eclipse's birth, 
And when red comets in their blazing cars 

Should sweep above the awed and troubled earth : — 
He that had sped brave vessels o'er the seas, 

Which swiftly bring the wanderer to his home, 
Uncanvass'd ships, which move without a breeze, 

Their bright wheels dashing through the ocean foam :- 



THE DREAM. 35 

All, who in this life's bounded brief career 

Had shone amongst, or served their fellow-men, 
And left a name embalm'd in glory here, 

Lay calmly buried on that magic plain. 
And he who wander'd with me in my dream, 

Told me their histories as we onward went, 
Till the grave shone with such a hallow'd beam, 

Such pleasure with their memory seem'd blent, 
That, when we look'd to heaven, our upward eyes 
With no funereal sadness mock'd the skies ! 



" Then, change of scene, and time, and place once more ; 

And by a Gothic window, richly bright, 
Whose stain'd armorial bearings on the floor 

Flung the quaint tracery of their colour'd light, 
We sate together: his most noble head 

Bent o'er the storied tome of other days, 
And still he commented on all we read, 

And taught me what to love, and what to praise. 
Then Spenser made the summer-day seem brief, 

Or Milton sounded with a loftier song, 
Then Cowper charm'd, with lays of gentle grief, 

Or glorious Dryden roll'd the hour along. 



36 THE DREAM. 

Or, in his varied beauty dearer still, 

Sweet Shakspeare changed the world around at will ; 

And we forgot the sunshine of that room 

To sit with Jacquez in the forest gloom ; 

To look abroad with Juliet's anxious eye 

For her boy-lover 'neath the moonlight sky ; 

Stand with Macbeth upon the haunted heath, 

Or weep for gentle Desdemona's death; 

Watch, on bright Cydnus' wave, the glittering sheen 

And silken sails of Egypt's wanton Queen ; 

Or roam with Ariel through that island strange 

Where spirits, and not men, were wont to range, 

Still struggling on through brake, and bush, and hollow, 

Hearing that sweet voice calling — f Follow ! follow !' 



" Nor were there wanting lays of other lands, 
For these were all familiar in his hands : 
And Dante's dream of horror work'd its spell, — 
And Petrarch's sadness on our bosoms fell, — 
And prison'd Tasso's — he, the coldly-loved, 
The madly-loving ! he, so deeply proved 
By many a year of darkness, like the grave, 
For her who dared not plead, or would not save, ( 5 ) 



THE DREAM. 37 

For her who thought the poet's suit brought shame, 
Whose passion hath immortalized her name ! 
And Egmont, with his noble heart betray'd, — 
And Carlos, haunted by a murder'd shade, — 
And Faust's strange legend, sweet and wondrous wild, 
Stole many a tear : — Creation's loveliest child ! 
Guileless, ensnared, and tempted Margaret, 
Who could peruse thy fate with eyes unwet ? 

" Then, through the lands we read of, far away, 
The vision led me all a summer's day : 
And we look'd round on southern Italy, 

Where her dark head the graceful cypress rears 
In arrowy straightness and soft majesty, 

And the sun's face a mellower glory wears ; 
Bringing, where'er his warm light richly shines. 
Sweet odours from the gum-distilling pines ; 
And casting o'er white palaces a glow, 
Like morning's hue on mountain-peaks of snow. 

" Those palaces ! how fair their columns rose ! 
Their courts, cool fountains, and wide porticos ! 
And ballustraded roofs, whose very form 
Told what an unknown stranger was the storm ! 



38 THE DREAM. 

In one of these we dwelt : its painted walls 

A master's hand had been employ'd to trace ; 
Its long cool range of shadowy marble halls 

Was fill'd with statues of most living grace ; 
While on its ceilings roll'd the fiery car 
Of the bright day-god, chasing night afar, — 
Or Jove's young favourite, toward Olympus' height 
Soar'd with the Eagle's dark majestic flight, — 
Or fair Apollo's harp seem'd freshly strung, 
All heaven group 'd round him, listening while he sung. 



" So, in the garden's plann'd and planted bound 
All wore the aspect of enchanted ground; 
Thick orange-groves, close arching over head, 
Shelter'd the paths our footsteps loved to tread ; 
Or ilex-trees shut out, with shadow sweet, 
Th' oppressive splendour of the noontide heat. 
Through the bright vista, at each varying turn, 
Gleam'd the white statue, or the graceful urn ; 
And, paved with many a curved and twisted line 
Of fair Mosaic's strange and quaint design, 
Terrace on terrace rose, with steep so slight, 
That scarce the pausing eye inquired the height, 



THE DREAM. 39 

Till stretch'd beneath, in far perspective lay 
The glittering city and the deep blue bay ! 
Then as we turn'd again to groves and bowers, 
(Rich with the perfume of a thousand flowers,) 
The sultry day was cheated of its force 
By the sweet winding of some streamlet's course : 
From sculptured arch, and ornamented walls, 
Rippled a thousand tiny waterfalls, 
While here and there an open basin gave 
Rest to the eye and freshness to the wave ; 
Here, high above the imprison'd waters, stood 
Some imaged Naiad, guardian of the flood ; 
There, in a cool and grotto-like repose, 
The sea-born goddess from her shell arose ; 
Or river-god his fertile urn display'd, 
Gushing at distance through the lone arcade, — 
Or Triton, lifting his wild conch on high, 
Spouted the silver tribute to the sky, — 
Or, lovelier still, (because to Nature true, 
Even in the thought creative genius drew,) 
Some statue-nymph, her bath of beauty o'er 
Stood gently bending by the rocky shore, 
And, like Bologna's sweet and graceful dream. 
From her moist hair wrung out the living stream. ( 6 ) 



40 THE DREAM. 

" Bright was the spot ! and still we linger'd on 
Unwearied, till the summer-day was done ; 
Till He, who, when the morning dew was wet, 
In glory rose — in equal glory set. 
Fair sank his light, unclouded to the last, 
And o'er that land its glow of beauty cast ; 
And the sweet breath of evening air went forth 
To cool the bosom of the fainting earth ; 
To bid the pale-leaved olives lightly wave 
Upon their seaward slope (whose waters lave 
With listless gentleness the golden strand, 
And scarcely leave, and scarce return to land) ; 
Or with its wings of freshness, wandering round, 
Visit the heights with many a villa crown'd, 
Where the still pine and cypress, side by side, 
Look from their distant hills on Ocean's tide. 



" The cypress and the pine ! Ah, still I see 
These thy green children, lovely Italy ! 
Nature's dear favourites, allow'd to wear 
Their summer hue throughout the circling year ! 
And oft, when wandering out at even-time 
To watch the sunsets of a colder clime, 



THE DREAM. 41 

As the dim landscape fades and grows more faint, 

Fancy's sweet power a different scene shall paint ; 

Enrich with deeper tints the colours given 

To the pale beauty of our English heaven, — 

Bid purple mountains rise among the clouds. 

Or deem their mass some marble palace shrouds, — 

Trace on the red horizon's level line, 

In outlines dark, the high majestic pine, — 

And hear, amid the groups of English trees, 

His sister cypress murmuring to the breeze ! 



" Never again shall evening, sweet and still, 
Gleam upon river, mountain, rock, or hill, — 
Never again shall fresh and budding spring, 
Or brighter summer, hue of beauty bring, 
In this, the clime where 'tis my lot to dwell, 
But shall recall, as by a magic spell, 
Thy scenes, dear land of poetry and song ! 
Bid thy fair statues on my memory throng ; 
Thy glorious pictures gleam upon my sight 
Like fleeting shadows o'er the summer light; 
And send my haunted heart to dwell once more, 
Glad and entranced by thy delightful shore — 



42 THE DREAM. 

Thy shore, where rolls that blue and tideless sea, 
Bright as thyself, thou radiant Italy ! 



" And there (where Beauty's spirit sure had birth, 
Though she hath wander'd since upon the earth, 
And scatter'd, as she pass'd, some sparks of thought, 
Such as of old her sons of genius wrought, 
To show what strength the immortal soul can wield 
E'en here, in this its dark and narrow field, 
And fill us with a fond inquiring thirst 
To see that land which claim' d her triumphs first) 
Music was brought — with soft impressive power — 
To fill with varying joy the varying hour. 
We welcomed it ; for welcome still to all 
It comes, in cottage, court, or lordly hall ; 
And in the long bright summer evenings, oft 
We sate and listened to some measure soft 
From many instruments ; or, faint and lone, 
(Touch'd by his gentle hand, or by my own,) 
The little lute its chorded notes would send 
Tender and clear ; and with our voices blend 
Cadence so true, that, when the breeze swept by, 
One mingled echo floated on its sigh ! 



THE DREAM. 43 

And still as day by day we saw depart, 
/ was the living idol of Lis heart : 
How to make joy a portion of the air 
That breathed around me, seem'd his only care. 
For me the harp was strung, the page was turn'd ; 
For me the morning rose, the sunset burn'd ; 
For me the Spring put on her verdant suit ; 
For me the Summer flower, the Autumn fruit ; 
The very world seem'd mine, so mighty strove 
For my contentment, that enduring love. 



" I see him still, dear mother ! Still I hear 
That voice so deeply soft, so strangely clear ; 
Still in the air wild wandering echoes float, 
And bring my dream's sweet music note for note ! 
Oh ! shall those sounds no more my fancy bless, 
Which fill my heart, and on my memory press ? 
Shall I no more those sunset clouds behold, 
Floating like bright transparent thrones of gold ? 
The skies, the seas, the hills of glorious blue ; 
The glades and groves, with glories shining through ; 
The bands of red and purple, richly seen 
Athwart the sky of pale, faint, gem-like green ; 



44 THE DREAM. 

When the breeze slept, the earth lay hush'd and still, 
When the low sun sank slanting from the hill, 
And slow and amber-tinged the moon uprose, 
To watch his farewell hour in glory close ? 
Is all that radiance past — gone by for ever — 

And must there in its stead for ever be 
The grey, sad sky, the cold and clouded river, 

And dismal dwellings by the wintry sea ? 
E'er half a summer, altering day by day, 
In fickle brightness, here, hath pass'd away ! 
And was that form (whose love might still sustain) 
Nought but a vapour of the dreaming brain ? — 
Would I had slept for ever ! " 

Sad she sigh'd ; 
To whom the mournful mother thus replied : — 

" Upbraid not Heaven, whose wisdom thus would rule 
A world whose changes are the soul's best school : 
All dream like thee, and 'tis for Mercy's sake 
That those who dream the wildest, soonest wake ; 
All deem Perfection's system would be found 
In giving earthly sense no stint or bound ; 
All look for happiness beneath the sun, 
And each expects what God hath given to none. 



THE DREAM. 45 

fi 111 what an idle luxury of joy 
Would thy spoil'd heart its useless hours employ ! 
In what a selfish loneliness of light 
Wouldst thou exist, read we thy dream aright ! 
How hath thy sleeping spirit broke the chain 
Which knits thy human lot to other's pain, 
And made this world of peopled millions seem 
For thee and for the lover of thy dream ! 



" Think not my heart with cold indifference heard 
The various feelings which in thine have stirr'd, 
Or that its sad and weary currents know 
Faint sympathy, except for human woe : 
Well have the dormant echoes of my breast 
Answer 'd the joys thy gentle voice express'd; 
Conjured a vision of the stately mate 
With whom the flattering vision link'd thy fate ; 
And follow'd thee through grove and woodland wild, 
Where so much natural beauty round thee smiled. 



({ What man so worldly-wise, or chill'd by age, 
Who, bending o'er the faint descriptive page, 



46 THE DREAM. 

Recals not such a scene in some far nook — 

(Whereon his eyes, perchance, no more shall look ;) 

Some hawthorn copse, some gnarl'd majestic tree, 

The favourite play-place of his infancy ? 

Who has not felt for Cowper's sweet lament, ( 7 ) 

When twelve years' course their cruel change had sent ; 

When his fell'd poplars gave no further shade, 

And low on earth the blackbird's nest was laid ; 

When in a desert sunshine, bare and blank, 

Lay the green field and river's mossy bank ; 

And melody of bird or branch no more 

E-ose with the breeze that swept along the shore ? 



" Few are the hearts, (nor theirs of kindly frame,) 
On whom fair Nature holds not such a claim ; 
And oft, in after-life, some simple thing — 
A bank of primroses in early Spring — 
The tender scent which hidden violets yield — 
The sight of cowslips in a meadow-field — 
Or young laburnum's pendant yellow chain — 
May bring the favourite play-ground back again ! 
Our youthful mates are gone ; some dead, some changed, 
With whom that pleasant spot was gladly ranged ; 



THE DREAM. 47 

Ourselves, perhaps, more alter 'd e'en than they — 
But there still blooms the blossom-showering May ; 
There still along the hedge-row's verdant line 
The linnet sings, the thorny brambles twine ; 
Still in the copse a troop of merry elves 
Shout — the gay image of our former selves ; 
And still, with sparkling eyes and eager hands, 
Some rosy urchin high on tiptoe stands, 
And plucks the ripest berries from the bough — 
Which tempts a different generation now ! 



" "What though no real beauty haunt that spot, 
By graver minds beheld and noticed not ? 
Can we forget that once to our young eyes 
It wore the aspect of a Paradise ? 
No ; still around its hallow'd precinct lives 
The fond mysterious charm that memory gives ; 
The man recals the feelings of the boy, 
And clothes the meanest flower with freshness and with joy. 



" Nor think by elder hearts forgotten quite 
Love's whisper'd words ; youth's sweet and strange delight ! 



48 THE DUEAM. 

They live — though after -memories fade away ; 
They live — to cheer life's slow declining day; 
Haunting the widow by her lonely hearth, 
As, meekly smiling at her children's mirth, 
She spreads her fair thin hands towards the fire, 
To seek the warmth their slacken'd veins require : 
Or gladdening her to whom Heaven's mercy spares 
Her old companion with his silver hairs ; 
And while he dozes — changed, and dull, and weak- — 
And his hush'd grandchild signs, but dares not speak,- 
Bidding her watch, with many a tender smile, 
The wither'd form which slumbers all the while. 



u Yes ! sweet the voice of those we loved ! the tone 
Which cheers our memory as we sit alone, 
And will not leave us ; the o'er-mastering force, 
Whose under-current's strange and hidden course 
Bids some chance word, by colder hearts forgot, 
Return — and still return — yet weary not 
The ear which wooes its sameness ! How, when Death 
Hath stopp'd with ruthless hand some precious breath, 
The memory of the voice he hath destroy'd 
Lives in our souls, as in an aching void ! 



THE DREAM. 49 

How, through the varying fate of after-years, 
When stifled sorrow weeps but casual tears, 
If some stray tone seem like the voice we knew, 
The heart leaps up with answer deep and true ! 
Greeting again that sweet, long-vanish'd sound, 
As, in earth's nooks of ever-haunted ground, 
Strange accident, or man's capricious will, 
Wakes the lone echoes, and they answer still ! 



" Oh ! what a shallow fable cheats the age, 
When the lost lover, on the motley stage, 
Wrapp'd from his mistress in some quaint disguise, 
Deceives her ear, because he cheats her eyes ! 
Bather, if all could fade which charm'd us first, — 
If, by some magic stroke, some plague-spot cursed, 
All outward semblance left the form beloved 
A wreck unrecognised, and half disproved, 
At the dear sound of that familiar voice 
Her waken'd heart should tremble and rejoice, 
Leap to its faith at once, — and spurn the doubt 
Which, on such showing, barr'd his welcome out ! 



50 THE DREAM. 

" And if even words are sweet, what, what is song, 
When lips we love, the melody prolong ? 
How thrills the soul, and vibrates to that lay, 
Swells with the glorious sound, or dies away ! 
How, to the cadence of the simplest words 
That ever hung upon the wild harp's chords, 
The breathless heart lies Kstening ; as it felt 
All life within it on that music dwelt, 
And hush'd the beating pulse's rapid power 
By its own will, for that enchanted hour ! 



" Ay ! then to those who love the science well, 
Music becomes a passion and a spell ! 
Music, the tender child of rudest times, 
The gentle native of all lands and climes ; 
Who hymns alike man's cradle and his grave, 
Lulls the low cot, or peals along the nave ; 
Cheers the poor peasant, who his native hills 
With wild Tyrolean echoes sweetly fills ; 
Inspires the Indian's low monotonous chant, 
Weaves skilful melodies for Luxury's haunt ; 
And still, through all these changes, lives the same, 
Spirit without a home, without a name, 



THE DREAM. $\ 

Coming, where all is discord, strife, and sin, 
To prove some innate harmony within 
Our listening souls ; and lull the heaving breast 
With the dim vision of an unknown rest ! 



" But, dearest child, though many a joy be given 
By the pure bounty of all-pitying Heaven, — ■ 
Though sweet emotions in our hearts have birth, 
As flowers are spangled on the lap of earth, — 
Though, with the flag of Hope and Triumph hung 
High o'er our heads, we start when life is young, 
And onward cheer'd, by sense, and sight, and sound, 
Like a launch'd bark, we enter with a bound ; 
Yet must the dark cloud lour, the tempest fall, 
And the same chance of shipwreck waits for all. 
Happy are they who leave the harbouring land 
Not for a summer voyage, hand in hand, 
Pleasure's light slaves ; but with an earnest eye 
Exploring all the future of their sky ; 
That so, when Life's career at length is past, 
To the right haven they may steer at last, 
And safe from hidden rock, or open gale, 
Lay by the oar, and furl the slacken'd sail, — 

d2 



52 THE DREAM. 

To anchor deeply on that tranquil shore 

Where vexing storms can never reach them more ! 



" Wouldst thou be singled out by partial Heaven 
The one to whom a cloudless lot is given? 
Look round the world, and see what fate is there, 
Which justice can pronounce exempt from care : 
Though bright they bloom to empty outward show, 
There lurks in each some canker-worm of woe ; 
Still by some thorn the onward step is cross'd, 
Nor least rephiing those who 're envied most : 
The poor have struggling, toil, and wounded pride, 
Which seeks, and seeks in vain, its rags to hide ; 
The rich, cold jealousies, intrigues, and strife, 
And heart-sick discontent which poisons life ; 
The loved are parted by the hand of Death, 
The hated live to curse each other's breath : 
The wealthy noble mourns the want of heirs ; 
While, each the object of incessant prayers, 
Gay, hardy sons, around the widow's board, 
With careless smiles devour her scanty hoard ; 
And hear no sorrow in her stifled sigh, 
And see no terror in her anxious eye, — 



THE DREAM. 53 

While she in fancy antedates the time 
When, scatter'd far and wide in many a clime, 
These heirs to nothing but their Father's name 
Must earn their bread, and struggle hard for fame ; 
To sultry India sends her fair-hair'd boy — 
Sees the dull desk another's youth employ — 
And parts with one to sail the uncertain main, 
Never perhaps on earth to meet again ! 



" Nor ev'n does Love, whose fresh and radiant beam 
Gave added brightness to thy wandering dream, 
Preserve from bitter touch of ills unknown, 
But rather brings strange sorrows of its own. 
Various the ways in which our souls are tried; 
Love often fails where most our faith relied ; 
Some wayward heart may win, without a thought, 
That which thine own by sacrifice had bought; 
May carelessly aside the treasure cast, 
And yet be madly worshipp'd to the last ; 
Whilst thou, forsaken, grieving, left to pine, 
Vainly may'st claim his plighted faith as thine ; 
Vainly his idol's charms with thine compare, 
And know thyself as young, as bright, as fair ; 



54 THE DREAM. 

Vainly in jealous pangs consume thy day, 

And waste the sleepless night in tears away ; 

Vainly with forced indulgence strive to smile 

In the cold world, heart-broken all the while, 

Or from its glittering and unquiet crowd, 

Thy brain on fire, thy spirit crush'd and bow'd, 

Creep home unnoticed, there to weep alone, 

Mock'd by a claim which gives thee not thine own, 

Which leaves thee bound through all thy blighted youth 

To him whose perjured soul hath broke its truth; 

While the just world, beholding thee bereft, 

Scorns — not his sin — but thee, for being left ! 



" Ah ! never to the Sensualist appeal, 
Nor deem his frozen bosom aught can feel. 
Affection, root of all fond memories, 
Which bids what once hath charm'd for ever please, 
He knows not : all thy beauty could inspire 
Was but a sentiment of low desire : 
If from thy cheek the rose's hue be gone, 
How should love stay which loved for that alone ? 
Or, if thy youthful face be still as bright 
As when it first entranced his eager sight, 



THE DREAM. 55 

Thou art the same ; there is thy fault, thy crime, 
Which fades the charms yet spared by rapid Time. 
Talk to him of the happy days gone by, 
Conceal'd aversion chills his shrinking eye : 
While in thine agony thou still dost rave, 
Impatient wishes doom thee to the grave ; 
And if his cold and selfish thought had power 
T' accelerate the fatal final hour, 
The silent murder were already done, 
And thy white tomb would glitter in the sun. 
What wouldst thou hold by ? What is it to him 
That for his sake thy weeping eyes are dim ? 
His pall'd and wearied senses rove apart, 
And for his heart — thou never hadst his heart. 



" True, there is better love, whose balance just 
Mingles Soul's instinct with our grosser dust, 
And leaves affection, strengthening day by day, 
Firm to assault, impervious to decay. 
To such, a star of hope thy love shall be 
Whose stedfast light he still desires to see ; 
And age shall vainly mar thy beauty's grace, 
Or wantons plot to steal into thy place, 



56 THE DREAM. 

Or wild Temptation, from her hidden bowers, 

Fling o'er his path her bright but poisonous flowers, — 

Dearer to him than all who thus beguile, 

Thy faded face, and thy familiar smile ; 

Thy glance, which still hath welcomed him for years, 

Now bright with gladness, and now dim with tears ! 

And if (for we are weak) division come 

On wings of discord to that happy home, 

Soon is the painful hour of anger past, 

Too sharp, too strange an agony to last ; 

And, like some river's bright abundant tide 

Which art or accident hath forced aside, 

The well-springs of affection, gushing o'er, 

Back to their natural channels flow once more. 



" Ah ! sad it is when one thus link'd departs ! 
When Death, that mighty severer of true hearts, 
Sweeps through the halls so lately loud in mirth, 
And leaves pale Sorrow weeping by the hearth ! 
Bitter it is to wander there alone, 

To nil the vacant place, the empty chair, 
With a dear vision of the loved one gone, 

And start to see it vaguely melt in ah ! 



THE DREAM. 57 

Bitter to find all joy that once hath been 

Double its value when 'tis pass'd away,, — 
To feel the blow which Time should make less keen 

Increase its burden each successive day, — 
To need good counsel, and to miss the voice, 

The ever trusted, and the ever true, 
Whose tones were wont to cheer our faltering choice, 

And show what holy Virtue bade us do, — 
To bear deep wrong, and bow the widow'd head 

In helpless anguish, no one to defend ; 
Or worse, — in lieu of him, the kindly dead, 

Claim faint assistance from some lukewarm friend, — 
Yet scarce perceive the extent of all our loss 
Till the fresh tomb be green with gathering moss — 
Till many a morn have met our sadden'd eyes 

With none to say " Good morrow ;" — many an eve 
Sent its red glory through the tranquil skies, 

Each bringing with it deeper cause to grieve ! 



" This is a destiny which may be thine — 
The common grief: God will'd it should be mine : 
Short was the course our happy love had run, 
And hard it was to say ' Thy will be done !' 



58 THE DREAM. 

" Yet those whom man, not God, hath parted, know 
A heavier pang, a more enduring woe ; 
No softening memory mingles with their tears, 
Still the wound rankles on through dreary years, 
Still the heart feels, in bitterest hours of blame, 
It dares not curse the long-familiar name ; 
Still, vainly free, through many a cheerless day, 
From weaker ties turns helplessly away, 
Sick for the smiles that bless'd its home of yore, 
The natural joys of life that come no more ; 
And, all bewilder'd by the abyss, whose gloom 
Dark and impassable as is the tomb, 
Lies stretch' d between the future and the past, — 
Sinks into deep and cold despair at last. 



" Heaven give thee poverty, disease, or death, 
Each varied ill that waits on human breath, 
Rather than bid thee linger out thy life 
In the long toil of such unnatural strife. 
To wander through the world unreconciled, 
Heart weary as a spirit-broken child, 
And think it were an hour of bliss like heaven 
If thou could'st die — forgiving and forgiven, — 



THE DREAM. 59 

Or with a feverish hope, of anguish born, 
(Nerving thy mind to feel indignant scorn 
Of all the cruel foes who 'twixt ye stand, 
Holding thy heartstrings with a reckless hand,) 
Steal to his presence, now unseen so long, 
And claim his mercy who hath dealt the wrong ! 
Into the aching depths of thy poor heart 

Dive, as it were, even to the roots of pain, 
And wrench up thoughts that tear thy soul apart, 

And burn like fire through thy bewilder'd brain. 
Clothe them in passionate words of wild appeal 
To teach thy fellow-creature how to feel,— 
Pray, weep, exhaust thyself in maddening tears, — 
Eecal the hopes, the influence of years, — ■ 
Kneel, dash thyself upon the senseless ground, 
Writhe as the worm writhes with dividing wound, — 
Invoke the heaven that knows thy sorrow's truth, 
By all the softening memories of youth — 
By every hope that cheer'd thine earlier day — 
By every tear that washes wrath away — 
By every dear remembrance long gone by — 
By every pang that makes thee yearn to die ; 
And learn at length how deep and stern a blow 
Near hands can strike, and yet no pity show ! 



60 THE DREAM. 

" Oil ! weak to suffer, savage to inflict, 

Is man's commingling nature ; hear him now 
Some transient trial of his life depict, 

Hear him in holy rites a suppliant bow ; 
See him shrink back from sickness and from pain, 
And in his sorrow to his God complain ; 
'- Remit my trespass, spare my sin,' he cries, 
' All-merciful, Almighty, and All- wise; 
Stem this affliction's bitter whelming tide, 
Draw out thy barbed arrow from my side :' — 
— And rises from that mockery of prayer 
To hale some brother-debtor to despair! 



" May this be spared thee ! Yet be sure, my child, 
(Howe'er that dream thy fancy hath beguiled,) 
Some sorrow lurks to cloud thy future fate ; 
Thy share of tears, — come early or come late, — 
Must still be shed ; and 'twere as vain a thing 
To ask of Nature one perpetual spring 
As to evade those sad autumnal hours, 
Or deem thy path of life should bloom, all flowers." 



THE DREAM. 61 

She ceased : and that fair maiden heard the truth 
With the fond passionate despair of youth, 
Which, new to suffering, gives its sorrow vent 
In outward signs and bursts of wild lament : — 



u If this be so, then, mother, let me die 
Ere yet the glow hath faded from my sky ! 
Let me die young ; before the holy trust 
In human kindness crumbles into dust ; 
Before I suffer what I have not earn'd, 
Or see by treachery my truth return'd ; 
Before the love I live for, fades away ; 
Before the hopes I cherish' d most, decay ; 
Before the withering touch of fearful change 
Makes some familiar face look cold and strange, 
Or some dear heart close knitted to my own, 
By perishing, hath left me more alone ! 
Though death be bitter, I can brave its pain 
Better than all which threats if I remain : 
While my soul, freed from ev'ry chance of ill, 
Soars to that God whose high mysterious will 
Sent me, foredoom' d to grief, with wandering feet, 
To grope my way through all this fair deceit !" 



62 THE DREAM. 

Her parent heard the words with grieved amaze, 
And thus return'd, with calm reproving gaze : — 

" Blaspheme not Heaven with rash impatient speech, 
Nor deem, at thine own hour, its rest to reach, 
Unhappy child ! The full appointed time 
Is His to choose ; and when the sullen chime, 
And deep-toned striking of the funeral bell, 
Thy fate to earthly ears shall sadly tell, 
Oh ! may the death thou talk'st of as a boon, 
Find thee prepared, — nor come even then too soon ! 

" True, ere thou meet'st that long and dreamless sleep, 
Thy heart must ache — thy weary eyes must weep : 
It is our human lot ! The fairest child 
That e'er on loving mother brightly smiled, — 
Most watch'd, most tended — ere his eyelids close 
Hath had his little share of infant woes, 
And dies familiar with the sense of grief, 
Though for all else his life hath been too brief! 
But shall we therefore, murmuring against God, 
Question the justice of his chastening rod, 
And look to earthly joys as though they were 
The prize immortal souls were given to share ? 






THE DREAM. 63 

" Oh! were such, joys and this vain world alone 

The term of human hope — where, where would be 
The victims of some tyranny unknown, 

Who sank, still conscious that the mind was free ? 
They that have lain in dungeons years on years, 

No voice to cheer their darkness, — they whose pain 
Of horrid torture wrung forth blood with tears, 

Murder'd, perhaps, for some rapacious gain,— 
They who have stood, bound to the martyr's stake, 

While the sharp flames ate through the blistering skin, — 
They that have bled for some high cause's sake, — 

They that have perish'd for another's sin, 
And from the scaffold to that God appeal'd 
To whom the naked heart is all reveal'd, 
Against the shortening of life's narrow span 
By the blind rage and false decree of man ? 
And where obscurer sufferers — they who slept 

And left no name on history's random page, — 
But in God's book of reckoning, sternly kept, 

Live on from year to year, from age to age ? 
The poor — the labouring poor ! whose weary lives, 

Through many a freezing night and hungry day, 
Are a reproach to him who only strives 

In luxury to waste his hours away, — 



64 THE DREAM. 

The patient poor ! whose insufficient means 

Make sickness dreadful, yet by whose low bed 
Oft in meek prayer some fellow-sufferer leans. 

And trusts in Heaven while destitute of bread; 
The workhouse orphan, left without a friend ; 

Or weak forsaken child of want and sin, 
Whose helpless life begins, as it must end, 

By men disputing who shall take it in ; 
Who clothe, who aid that spark to linger here, 

Which for mysterious purpose God hath given 
To struggle through a day of toil and fear, 

And meet him — with the proudest — up in heaven ! 
These were, and are not : — shall we therefore deem 
That they have vanish' d like a sleeper's dream ? 
Or that one half creation is to know 
Luxurious joy, and others only woe, 
And so go down into the common tomb, 
With none to question their unequal doom ? 
Shall we give credit to a thought so fond ? 
Ah ! no — the world beyond — the world beyond ! 
There, shall the desolate heart regain its own ! 
There, the oppress'd shall stand before God's throne ! 
There, when the tangled web is all explain'd, 
Wrong suffer'd, pain inflicted, grief disdain'd, 



THE DREAM. 65 

Man's proud mistaken, judgments and false scorn 
Shall melt like mists before uprising morn, 
And holy truth stand forth serenely bright, 
In the rich flood of God's eternal light ! 

" Then shall the Lazarus of the earth have rest — 
The rich man judgment — and the grieving breast 
Deep peace for ever. Therefore look thou not 
So much to what on earth shall be thy lot, 
As to thy fate hereafter, — to that day 
When like a scroll this world shall pass away, 
And what thou here hast done, or here enjoy 'd, 
Import but to thy soul: — all else destroy 'd ! 

" And have thou aith in human nature still ; 
Though evil thoughts abound, and acts of ill ; 
Though innocence in sorrow shrouded be, 
And tyranny's strong step walk bold and free ! 
For many a kindly generous deed is done 
Which leaves no record underneath the sun — 
Self-abnegating love and humble worth, 
Which yet shall consecrate our sinful earth ! 
He that deals blame, and yet forgets to praise, 
Who sets brief storms against long summer-days, 



66 THE DREAM. 

Hath a sick judgment. Shall the usual joy 
Be all forgot, and nought our minds employ, 
Through the long course of ever- varying years, 
But temporary pain and casual tears ? 
And shall we all condemn, and all distrust, 
Because some men are false and some unjust ? 
Forbid it Heaven ! far better 'twere to be 
Dupe of the fond impossibility 
Of light and radiance which thy vision gave 
Than thus to live Suspicion's bitter slave. 
Give credit to thy mortal brother's heart 
For all the good that in thine own hath part, 
And, cheerfully as honest prudence may, 
Trust to his proffer'd hand's protecting stay : 
For God, who made this teeming earth so full, 
And made the proud dependant on the dull — 
The strong upon the weak — thereby would show 
One common bond should link us all below. 



" And visit not with a severer scorn 
Faults, whose deep root was with our nature born, 
From which — though others woo'd thee just as vain- 
Thou, differently tempted, didst abstain : 



THE DREAM. 67 

Nor dwell on points of creed — assuming right 

To judge how holy in his Maker's sight 

Is he who at a different altar bends ; 

For hence have ris'n the bitterest feuds of friends, 

The wildest wars of nations ; age on age 

Hath desecrated thus dark History's page ; 

And still (though not, perhaps, with fire and sword) 

Reckless we raise f The banner of the Lord ! ' 

Mock Heaven's calm mercy by the plea we make, 

That all is done for gentle Jesus' sake, — 

Disturb the consciences of weaker men,— 

Employ the scholar's art, the bigot's pen,— 

And rouse the wrathful and the spirit-proud 

To language bitter, vehement, and loud, 

Whose unconvincing fury wounds the ear, 

And seeking, with some sharp and haughty sneer, 

How best the opposing party may be stung, — 

Pleads for Religion with a demon's tongue ! 



" Oh ! shall God tolerate the meanest prayer 
That humbly seeks his high supernal throne, 

And man — presumptuous Pharisee — declare 
His fellow's voice less welcome than his own ? 



68 THE DREAM. 

Is it a theme for wild and warring words 

How best to satisfy the Maker's claim ? 
In rendering to the Lord what is the Lord's, 

Doth not the thought of violence bring shame ? 
Think ye he gave the branching forest-tree 

To furnish fagots for the funeral pyre ? 
Or bid his sunrise light the world, to see 

Pale tortured victims perish there by fire ? 
No ! oft on earth, dragg'd forth in pain to die, 

The heretic may groan — the martyr bleed — 
But, set before Ms Sovereign Judge on high, 

'Tis man's offence condemns him, not his creed. 
His first commandment was to worship Him ; 

His next — to love the creature He hath made : 
How blind the eyes of those who read, how dim, 

Who see not here religious fury stay'd ! 
From the proud Aa/f-fulfilment of his law 

Sternly he turns away his awful face, 
Nor will contentment from their service draw, 

Who fail to grant a fellow-creature grace. 
Haply the days of martyrdom are past, 

But still we see, without a visible end, 
The bitter warfare of opinion last, 

Tho' God hath will'd that man should be man's friend. 



THE DREAM. 69 

Therefore do thou, e'er yet thy youthful heart 
Be tinged with their revilings, safe retreat, 

And in those fierce discussions bear no part, — 
Odious in all — in woman most unmeet, — 

But in the still dark night, and rising day, 

Humbly collect thy thoughts, and humbly pray. 



" And be not thou cast down, because thy lot 
The glory of thy dream resembleth not. 
Not for herself was woman first create, 
Nor yet to be man's idol, but his mate. 
Still from his birth his cradled bed she tends, 
The first, the last, the faitlrfullest of friends ; 
Still finds her place in sickness or in woe, 
Humble to comfort, strong to undergo ; 
Still in the depth of weeping sorrow tries 
To watch his death-bed with her patient eyes ! 
And doubt not thou, — (although at times deceived, 
Outraged, insulted, slander'd, crush' d, and grieved ; 
Too often made a victim or a toy, 
With years of sorrow for an hour of joy ; 
Too oft forgot midst Pleasure's circling wiles, 
Or only valued for her rosy smiles, — ) 



70 THE DREAM. 

That, in the frank and generous heart of man, 

The place she holds accords with Heaven's high plan ; 

Still, if from wandering sin reclaim'd at all, 

He sees in her the angel of recal ; 

Still, in the sad and serious hours of life, 

Turns to the sister, mother, friend, or wife ; 

Views with a heart of fond and trustful pride 

His faithful partner by his calm fireside ; 

And oft, when barr'd of Fortune's fickle grace, 

Blank ruin stares him darkly in the face, 

Leans his faint head upon her kindly breast, 

And owns her power to soothe him into rest, — 

Owns what the gift of woman's love is worth 

To cheer his toils and trials upon earth ! 



" Sure it is much, this delegated power 
To be consoler of man's heaviest hour ! 
The guardian angel of a life of care, 
Allow'd to stand 'twixt him and his despair ! 
Such service may be made a holy task ; 
And more, 'twere vain to hope, and rash to ask. 
Therefore, oh ! loved and lovely, be content, 
And take thy lot, with joy and sorrow blent. 



THE DREAM. 71 

Judge none ; yet let thy share of conduct be, 
As knowing judgment shall be pass'd on thee 
Here and hereafter ; so, still undismay'd, 
And guarded by thy sweet thoughts' tranquil shade, 
Undazzled by the changeful rays which threw 
Their light across thy path while life was new, 
Thou shalt move sober on, — expecting less, 
Therefore the more enjoying, happiness." 



There was a pause ; then, with a tearful smile, 

The maiden turn'd and press'd her mother's hand : — 

" Shall I not bear what thou hast borne e'erwhile ? 
Shall I, rebellious, Heaven's high will withstand ? 

No ! cheerly on, my wandering path I '11 take, 

Nor fear the destiny I did not make : 

Though earthly joy grow dim — though pleasure waneth- 

This thou hast taught thy child, that God remaineth ! " 



And from her mother's fond protecting side 
She went into the world, a youthful bride. 



NOTES. 



Note 1. — Page 6. 

"And God's voice bless the cool hour of the day." 

" And they heard the voice of the Lord God walking in the garden 
in the cool of the day." — Genesis iii. 8. 

Note 2.— Page 25. 

" The young saw visions, and the old dream! d dreams?' 

" But this is that which was spoken by the prophet Joel : And 
it shall come to pass in the last days, saith God, I will pour out my 
spirit upon all flesh : and your sons and your daughters shall pro- 
phesy, and your young men shall see visions, and your old men shall 
dream dreams." — Acts ii. 

Note 3. — Page 26. 

" Tho' the four glittering rivers now divide 
No realms of beauty with their rolling tide." 

It should seem that Paradise lay on the confluent stream of the 
rivers Euphrates and Tigris, but principally on the eastern bank ; 



74 NOTES. 

which divided into two branches above the garden, and two more 
below it. From the description of these rivers by the ancient 
historians and geographers, Major Rennel collects that in ancient 
times they kept distinct courses to the sea, until the time of Alex- 
ander ; though at no great distance of time afterwards they became 
united, and joined the sea in a collective stream. 

Note 4. — Page 30. 

" Blessing ' the year, the hour, the place, the time' " 

See Petrarch's celebrated sonnet ; that beautiful burst of passion 
and tenderness (which might well stagger the incredulity of those 
who doubt the real existence of his Laura and his love) beginning— 

" Benedetto sia '1 giorno, e'l mese, e 1' anno 
E la stagione, e '1 tempo, e 1' ora, e '1 punto 
E '1 bel paese, e '1 loco ov' io fui giunto 
Da duo begli occhi che legato m' hanno ; " 

and called in the Italian edition " Effusione di piena allegrezza dello 
essersi di tale donna innamorato cotanto." 

Note 5. — Page 36. 

" For her who dared not plead, or would not save." 

Leonora DEste. So various are the causes assigned for Tasso's 
imprisonment by his numerous biographers, that it is difficult to 
decide whether his capricious and tyrannical patron really believed 
in his imputed insanity, or was led to the gross injustice of confining 
him as a madman by a desire to divide his sister, at all hazards, from 
a suitor so humble, and yet so dangerous. Among Charnes, Serapi, 



NOTES. 15 

Zuccala, and others, some assume the fact of the poet's madness, 
and ascribe it to religious doubts which seized on his mind at a time 
of great irritation and annoyance from various causes; but it is 
certain that Tasso himself connected his cruel detention with his 
love for the princess ; that he addressed both her and her sister in 
an ode couched in the most moving and melancholy terms, and 
appealing to her pity ; and that, in a letter to Scipio Gonzaga, 
describing his misery while in confinement, he expresses a bitter 
confidence that, could the princess behold with her own eyes the 
wretchedness to which he was reduced, she would " have compassion 
on him." 

Note 6.— Page 39. 
"From her moist hair wrung out the living stream." 
The beautiful statue, in bronze, by John of Bologna, intended to 
serve as a fountain, and representing a nymph wringing the water 
from her hair. This exquisite design has been lately copied from 
the original at Florence for Her Grace the Duchess of Sutherland, 
and will shortly be transported to England. 

Note 7. — Page 46. 
" Who has not felt for Cowper's sweet lament? " 
I shall perhaps be forgiven for transcribing entire one of the 
most perfect of Cowper's minor poems, though doubtless familiar 
to very many of my readers. 

" THE POPLAR FIELD. 
"The poplars are fell'd : farewell to the shade, 
And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade ; 
The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves, 
Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives. 

E 2 



76 



" Twelve years have elapsed, since I last took a view 
Of my favourite field, and the bank where they grew ; 
And now in the grass behold they are laid, 
And the tree is my seat, that once lent me a shade. 

" The blackbird has fled to another retreat, 
Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat, 
And the scene where his melody charm'd me before 
Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more. 

" My fugitive years are all hasting away, 
And I must ere long lie as lowly as they, 
With a turf on my breast, and a stone at my head, 
Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead. 

" 'Tis a sight to engage me, if anything can, 
To muse on the perishing pleasures of man ; 
Tho' his life be a dream, his enjoyments, I see, 
Have a being less durable even than he." 



THE CREOLE GIRL; 



THE PHYSICIAN'S STORY. 



THE CREOLE GIRL; 



THE PHYSICIAN'S STORY. 



Elle etait de ce monde, ou les plus belles choses 

Ont le pire destiri ; 
Et Rose, elle a vecu ce que vivent les Roses. 

L'espace d'un matin ! 



I. 

She came to England from the island clime 
Which lies beyond the far Atlantic wave ; 

She died in early youth — before her time — 

" Peace to her broken heart, and virgin grave !" 

II. 

She was the child of Passion, and of Shame, 
English her father, and of noble birth ; 

Though too obscure for good or evil fame, 
Her unknown mother faded from the earth. 



80 THE CREOLE GIRL. 

III. 

And what that fair West Indian did betide, 

None knew but be, who least of all might tell, — 

But that she lived, and loved, and lonely died, 
And sent this orphan child with him to dwell. 

IV. 

Oh ! that a fair and innocent young face 
Should have a poison in its looks alone, 

To raise up thoughts of sorrow and disgrace 
And shame most bitter, although not its own ! 

V. 

Cruel were they who flung that heavy shade 
Across the life whose days did but begin ; 

Cruel were they who crush'd her heart, and made 
Her youth pay penance for his youth's wild sin ; 

VI. 

Yet so it was ; — among her father's friends 
A cold compassion made contempt seem light, 

But, in "the world," no justice e'er defends 

The victims of their tortuous wrong and right : — 



THE CREOLE GIRL. gj 

VII. 
And " moral England/' striking down the weak, 

And smiling at the vices of the strong, 
On her, poor child ! her parent's guilt would wreak, 

And that which was her grievance, made her wrong. 

VIII. 

The world she understood not ; nor did they 

Who made that world, — her, either, understand; 

The very glory of her features' play 

Seem'd like the language of a foreign land ; 

IX. 

The shadowy feelings, rich and wild and warm, 
That glow'd and mantled in her lovely face, — 

The slight full beauty of her youthful form, 
Its gentle majesty, its pliant grace, — 

X. 

The languid lustre of her speaking eye, 

The indolent smile of that bewitching mouth, 

(Which more than all betray'd her natal sky, 
And left us dreaming of the sunny South,) — 

e 3 



82 THE CREOLE GIRL. 

XI. 

The passionate variation of her blood, 

Which rose and sank, as rise and sink the waves, 
With every change of her most changeful mood, 

Shocked sickly Fashion's pale and guarded slaves. 

XII. 

And so in this fair world she stood alone, 
An alien 'mid the ever-moving crowd, 

A wandering stranger, nameless and unknown, 
Her claim to human kindness disallow'd. 

XIII. 

But oft would Passion's bold and burning gaze, 

And Curiosity's set frozen stare, 
Fix on her beauty in those early days, 

And coarsely thus her loveliness declare ; 

XIV. 

Which she would shrink from, as the gentle plant, 
Fern-leaved Mimosa folds itself away ; 

Suffering and sad ; — for easy 'twas to daunt 
One who on earth had no protecting stay. 



THE CREOLE GIRL. gj 

XV. 

And often to her eye's transparent lid 

The unshed tears would rise with sudden start, 

And sink again, as though by Reason chid, 

Back to their gentle home, her wounded heart ; 

XVI. 

Even as some gushing fountain idly wells 

Up to the prison of its marble side, 
Whose power the mounting wave for ever quells, — 

So rose her tears — so stemm'd by virgin pride 

XVII. 

And so more lonely each succeeding day, 

As she her lot did better understand, 
She lived a life which had in it decay, 

A flower transplanted to too cold a land, — 

XVIII. 

Which for a while gives out a hope of bloom, 
Then fades and pines, because it may not feel 

The freedom and the warmth which gave it room 
The beauty of its nature to reveal. 



84 THE CREOLE GIRL, 

XIX. 

For vainly would the heart accept its lot 

And rouse its strength to bear avow'd contempt ; 

Scorn will be felt as scorn, — deserved or not, — 
And from its bitter spell none stand exempt. 

XX. 

There is a basilisk power in human eyes 

When they would look a fellow-creature down, 

'Xeath which the faint soul fascinated lies, 

Struck by the cold sneer, or the withering frown. 

XXI. 

But one there was, among that cruel crowd, 
Whose nature Aa/frebell'd against the chain 

Which fashion flung around him; though too proud 
To own that slavery's weariness and pain. 

XXII. 
Too proud; perhaps too weak ; for Custom still 

Curbs with an iron bit the souls born free ; 
They start and chafe, yet bend them to the will 

Of this most nameless ruler, — so did he. 



THE CREOLE GIRL. 85 

XXIII. 

And even unto him the worldly brand 

Which rested on her, half her charm effaced ; 

Vainly all pure and radiant did she stand, — 
Even unto him she was a thing disgraced. 

XXIV. 

Had she been early doom'd a cloister'd nun, 

To Heaven devoted by a holy vow — 
His union with that poor deserted one 

Had seem'd not more impossible than now. 

XXV. 

He could have loved her — fervently and well; 

But still the cold world, with its false allure, 
Bound his free liking in an icy spell, 

And made its whole foundation insecure. 

XXVI. 

But not like meaner souls, would he, to prove 

A vulgar admiration, her pursue ; 
For though his glances after her would rove, 

As something beautiful, and strange, and new, 



86 THE CREOLE GIRL. 

XXVII. 

They were withdrawn if but her eye met his, 
Or, for an instant if their light remain' d, 

They soften'd into gentlest tenderness, 

As asking pardon that his look had pain'd. 

XXVIII. 

And she was nothing unto him, — nor he 

Aught unto her ; but each of each did dream 

In the still hours of thought, when we are free 
To quit the real world for the things which seem. 

XXIX. 

When in his heart Love's folded wings would stir, 
And bid his youth choose out a fitting mate, 

Against his will his thoughts roam'd back to her, 
And all around seem'd blank and desolate. 

XXX. 

When, in his worldly haunts, a smother 'd sigh 
Told he had won some lady of the land, 

The dreaming glances of his earnest eye 
Beheld far off the Creole orphan stand ; 



THE CREOLE GIRL. §7 

XXXI. 

And to the beauty by his side he froze, 

As though she were not fair, nor he so young, 

And turn'd on her such looks of cold repose 
As check'd the trembling accents of her tongue, 

XXXII. 

And bid her heart's dim passion seek to hide 

Its gathering strength, although the task be pain, 

Lest she become that mock to woman's pride — 
A wretch that loves unwoo'd, and loves in vain. 

XXXIII. 

So in his heart she dwelt, — as one may dwell 

Upon the verge of a forbidden ground ; 
And oft he struggled hard to break the spell 

And banish her, but vain the effort found ; 

XXXIV. 

For still along the winding way which led 

Into his inmost soul, unbidden came 
Her haunting form, — and he was visited 

By echoes soft of her unspoken name, 



THE CREOLE GIRL. 



XXXV. 



Through the long night, when those we love seem near, 

However cold, however far away, 
Borne on the wings of floating dreams, which cheer 

And give us strength to meet the struggling day. 

XXXVI. 

And when in twilight hours she roved apart, 
Feeding her love-sick soul with visions fan, 

The shadow of his eyes was on her heart, 
And the smooth masses of his shining hair 

XXXVII. 

Rose in the glory of the evening light, 

And, where she wander'd, glided evermore, 

A star which beam'd upon her world's lone night, 
Where nothing glad had ever shone before. 

XXXVIII. 

But vague and girlish was that love, — no hope, 

Even of familiar greeting, ever cross'd 
Its innocent, but, oh ! most boundless scope ; 

She loved him, — and she knew her love was lost. 






THE CREOLE GIRL. 

XXXIX. 

She gazed on him, as one from out a bark, 
Bound onward to a cold and distant strand, 

Some lovely bay, some haven fair may mark, 
Stretching far inward to a sunnier land ; 

XL. 

Who, knowing he must still sail on, turns back 
To watch with dreaming and most mournful eyes 

The ruffling foam which follows in his track, 
Or the deep starlight of the shoreless skies. 

XLI. 

Oh ! many a hopeless love like this may be, — 
For love will live that never looks to win ; 

Gems rashly lost in Passion's stormy sea, 
Not to be lifted forth when once cast in ! 



END OF PART THE FIRST. 



90 THE CREOLE GIRL. 



PART II. 



I. 

So time roll'd on, till suddenly that child 

Of southern clime and feelings, droop'd and pined ; 

Her cheek wax'd paler, and her eye grew wild, 
And from her youthful form all strength declined. 

II. 

'Twas then I knew her ; late and vainly call'd, 
To " minister unto a mind diseased," — 

When on her heart's faint sickness all things pall'd, 
And the deep inward pain was never eased: 

III. 

Her step was always gentle, but at last 

It fell as lightly as a wither'd leaf 
In autumn hours ; and wheresoe'er she pass'd 

Smiles died away, she look'd so full of grief. 



THE CREOLE GIRL. 91 

IV. 

And more than ever from that world, where still 
Her father hoped to place her, she would shrink ; 

Loving to be alone, her thirst to fill 

From the sweet fountains where the dreamers drink. 

V. 

One eve, beneath the acacia's waving bough, 

Wrapt in these lonely thoughts she sate and read ; 

Her dark hair parted from her sunny brow, 
Her graceful arm beneath her languid head ; 

VI. 

And droopingly and sad she hung above 

The open page, whereon her eyes were bent, 

With looks of fond regret and pining love ; 
Nor heard my step, so deep was she intent. 

VII. 

And when she me perceived, she did not start, 
But lifted up those soft dark eyes to mine, 

And smiled, (that mournful smile which breaks the heart !) 
Then glanced again upon the printed line. 



92 THE CREOLE GIRL. 

VIII. 

" What readest thou ?" I ask'd. With fervent gaze, 
As though she would have scann'd my inmost soul, 

She turn'd to me, and, as a child obeys 

The accustom'd question of revered control, 

IX. 

She pointed to the title of that book, 

(Which, bending down, I saw was " Coralie,") 

Then gave me one imploring piteous look, 

And tears, too long restrained, gush'd fast and free. 

X. 

It was a tale of one, whose fate had been 

Too like her own to make that weeping strange ; 

Like her, transplanted from a sunnier scene ; 
Like her, all dull'd and blighted by the change. 

XL 

No farther word was breathed between us two; — 
No confidence was made to keep or break ; — 

But since that day, which pierced my soul quite thro', 
My hand the dying girl would faintly take, 



THE CREOLE GIRL. 93 

XII. 

And murmur, as its grasp (ah! piteous end!) 

Return'd the feeble pressure of her own, 
" Be with me to the last, — for thou, dear friend, 

Hast all my struggles, all my sorrow known!" 

XIII. 

She died ! — The pulse of that untrammell'd heart 
Fainted to stillness. Those most glorious eyes 

Closed on the world where she had dwelt apart, 
And her cold bosom heaved no further sighs. 

XIY. 

She died ! — and no one mourn' d, except her sire, 
Who for a while look'd out with eyes more dim ; 

Lone was her place beside his household fire, 
Vanish'd the face that ever smiled on him. 

XV. 

And no one said to him — " Why mournest thou ?" 
Because she was the unknown child of shame ; 

(Albeit her mother better kept the vow 

Of faithful love, than some who keep their fame.) 



94 THE CREOLE GIRL. 

XVI. 

Poor mother, and poor child ! — unvalued lives ! 

Wan leaves that perish'd in obscurest shade ! 
While round me still the proud world stirs and strives, 

Say, shall I weep that ye are lowly laid ? 

XVII. 

Shall / mourn for ye ? No ! — and least for thee, 
Young dreamer, whose pure heart gave way before 

Thy bark was launch'd upon Love's stormy sea, 
Or treachery wreck'd it on the farther shore. 

XVIII. 

Least, least of all for thee ! Thou art gone hence ! 

Thee never more shall scornful looks oppress, 
Thee the world wrings not with some vain pretence, 

Nor chills thy tears, nor mocks at thy distress. 

XIX. 

From man's injustice, from the cold award 
Of the unfeeling, thou hast pass'd away ; 

Thou 'rt at the gates of light, where angels guard 
Thy path to realms of bright eternal day. 



THE CREOLE GIRL. 95 

XX. 

There shall thy soul its chains of slavery burst, 
There, meekly standing before God's high throne, 

Thou 'It find the judgments of our earth reversed, 
And answer for no errors but thine own. 



TWILIGHT. 



TWILIGHT. 



It is the twilight hour, 

The daylight toil is done, 
And the last rays are departing 

Of the cold and wintry sun. 
It is the time when Friendship 

Holds converse fair and free, 
It is the time when children 

Dance round the mother's knee. 
But my soul is faint and heavy, 

With a yearning sad and deep, 
By the fireside lone and dreary 

I sit me down and weep ! 
Where are ye, merry voices, 

Whose clear and bird-like tone, 
Some other ear now blesses, 

Less anxious than my own ? 

f2 



100 TWILIGHT. 

Where are ye, steps of lightness, 

Which fell like blossom-showers ? 
Where are ye, sounds of laughter, 

That cheer'd the pleasant hours ? 
Thro' the dim light slow declining, 

Where my wistful glances fall, 
I can see your pictures hanging 

Against the silent wall ; — 
They gleam athwart the darkness, 

With their sweet and changeless eyes, 
But mute are ye, my children ! 

No voice to mine replies. 
Where are ye ? Are ye playing 

By the stranger's blazing hearth; 
Forgetting, in your gladness, 

Your old home's former mirth? 
Are ye dancing ? Are ye singing ? 

Are ye full of childish glee ? 
Or do your light hearts sadden 

With the memory of me? 
Round whom, oh ! gentle darlings, 

Do your young arms fondly twine, 
Does she press you to her bosom 

Who hath taken you from mine ? 



TWILIGHT. JO J 

Oh. ! boys, the twilight hour 

Such, a heavy time hath grown, — 
It recalls with such deep anguish 

All I used to call my own, — 
That the harshest word that ever 

Was spoken to me there, 
Would be trivial — would be ivelcome — 

In this depth of my despair ! 
Yet no ! Despair shall sink not, 

While Life and Love remain, — 
Tho' the weary struggle haunt me, 

And my prayer be made in vain : 
Tho' at times my spirit fail me, 

And the bitter tear-drops fall, 
Tho' my lot be hard and lonely, 

Yet I hope — I hope thro' all ! 



When the mournful Jewish mother 
Laid her infant down to rest, 

In doubt, and fear, and sorrow, 
On the water's changeful breast ; 



102 TWILIGHT. 

She knew not what the future 

Should bring the sorely-tried : 
That the Prophet of her nation, 

Was the babe she sought to hide. 
No ! in terror wildly flying, 

She hurried on her path ; 
Her swoln heart full to bursting 

Of woman's helpless wrath ; 
Of that wrath so blent with anguish, 

When we seek to shield from ill 
Those feeble little creatures 

Who seem more helpless still ! 
Ah ! no doubt, in such an hour, 

Her thoughts were harsh and wild ; 
The fiercer burned her spirit, 

The more she loved her child ; 
No doubt, a frenzied anger 

Was mingled with her fear, 
When that prayer arose for justice 

Which God hath sworn to hear. 
He heard it ! From His Heaven, 

In its blue and boundless scope, 
He saw that task of anguish, 

And that fragile ark of hope ; 



TWILIGHT. 103 

When she turn'd from that lost infant, 

Her weeping eyes of love, 
And the cold reeds bent beneath it — 

His angels watch'd above ! 
She was spared the bitter sorrow 

Of her young child's early death, 
Or the doubt where he was carried 

To draw his distant breath ; 
She was call'd his life to nourish 

From the well-springs of her heart, 
God's mercy re-uniting 

Those whom man had forced apart ! 



Nor was thy woe forgotten, 

Whose worn and weary feet 
Were driven from thy homestead, 

Through the red sand's parching heat ; 
Poor Hagar ! scorn'd and banish'd, 

That another's son might be 
Sole claimant on that father, 

Who felt no more for thee, 



104 TWILIGHT. 

All ! when thy dark eye wander'd, 

Forlorn Egyptian slave ! 
Across that lurid desert, 

And saw no fountain wave, — 
When thy southern heart, despairing, 

In the passion of its grief, 
Foresaw no ray of comfort, 

No shadow of relief; 
But to cast the young child from thee, 

That thou might'st not see him die, 
How sank thy broken spirit — 

But the Lord of Hosts was nigh ! 
He (He, too oft forgotten, 

In sorrow as in joy) 
Had will'd they should not perish — 

The outcast and her boy : 
The cool breeze swept across them 

From the angel's waving wing, — 
The fresh tide gush'd in brightness 

From the fountain's living spring, — 
And they stood — those two — forsaken 

By all earthly love or aid, 
Upheld by God's firm promise, 

Serene and undismay'd ! 



TWILIGHT. 105 

And thou, Nain's grieving widow ! 

Whose task of life seem'd done, 
When the pale corse lay before thee 

Of thy dear and only son ; 
Though Death, that fearful shadow, 

Had veil'd his fair young eyes, 
There was mercy for thy weeping, 

There was pity for thy sighs ! 
The gentle voice of Jesus, 

(Who the touch of sorrow knew) 
The grave's cold claim arrested 

E'er it hid him from thy view ; 
And those loving orbs re-open'd 

And knew thy mournful face, — 
And the stiff limbs warm'd and bent them 

With all life's moving grace, — 
And his senses dawn'd and waken'd 

From the dark and frozen spell, 
Which death had cast around him 

Whom thou did'st love so well ; 
Till, like one return'd from exile 

To his former home of rest, 
Who speaks not, while his mother 

Falls sobbing on his breast; 

f 3 



106 TWILIGHT. 

But with strange bewilder'd glances 

Looks round on objects near, 
To recognise and welcome 

All that memory held dear, — 
Thy young son stood before thee 

All living and restored, 
And they who saw the wonder 

Knelt down to praise the Lord! 



The twilight hour is over ! 

In busier homes than mine 
I can see the shadows crossing 

Athwart the taper's shine; 
I hear the roll of chariots 

And the tread of homeward feet, 
And the lamps' long rows of splendor 

Gleam through the misty street. 
No more I mark the objects 

In my cold and cheerless room ; 
The fire's unheeded embers 

Have sunk — and all is gloom ; 



TWILIGHT. 207 

But I know where hang your pictures 

Against the silent wall, 
And my eyes turn sadly towards them, 

Tho 5 1 hope— I hope thro' all. 



By the summons to that mother, 

Whose fondness fate beguiled. 
When the tyrant's gentle daughter 

Saved her river-floating child ; — 
By the sudden joy which bounded 

In the banish'd Hagar's heart, 
When she saw the gushing fountain 

From the sandy desert start; — 
By the living smile which greeted 

The lonely one of Nain, 
When her long last watch was over 

And her hope seem'd wild and vain; 
By all the tender mercy 

God hath shown to human grief, 
When fate or man's perverseness 

Denied and barr'd relief, — 



108 TWILIGHT. 

By the helpless woe which taught me 

To look to him alone, 
From the vain appeals for justice 

And wild efforts of my own, — 
By thy light — thou unseen future, 

And thy tears — thou bitter past, 
I will hope — tho' all forsake me, 

In His mercy to the last! 



December, 1838. 



A DESTINY. 



A DESTINY. 



I. 

There was a lady, who had early wed 

One whom she saw and lov'd in her bright youth, 
When life was yet untried — and when he said 

He, too, lov'd her, he spoke no more than truth ; 
He lov'd as well as baser natures can,— 
But a mean heart and soul were in that man, 

II. 

And they dwelt happily, if happy be 

Not with harsh words to breed unnatural strife : 
The cold world's Argus-watching failed to see 

The flaw that dimm'd the lustre of their life ; 
Save that he seem'd tyrannical, tho' gay, 
Restless and selfish in his love of sway. 



112 A DESTINY. 

III. 

The calm of conscious power was not in him ; 

But rather, struggling into broader light, 
The secret sense, they feel, however dim, 

Whose chance position gives a sort of right 
(As from the height of a prescriptive throne,) 
To govern natures nobler than their own. 

IV. 

And as her youth waned slowly on, there fell 
A nameless shadow on that lady's heart ; 

And those she lov'd the best (and she lov'd well), 
Had of her confidence nor share, nor part ; 

Her thoughts lay folded from Life's lessening light, 

Like the sweet flowers which close themselves at night. 

V. 

And men began to whisper evil things 
Against the honour of her wedded mate ; 

That which had pass'd for youth's wild wanderings, 
Showed more suspicious in his settled state ; 

Until at length, — he stood, at some chance game, 

Discover 'd, — branded with a Cheater's name. 



A DESTINY. 113 

VI. 

Out, and away he slunk, with felon air ; 

Then, calling to him one who was his friend, 
Bid him to that unblemish'd wife repair 

And tell her what had chanced, and what the end ; 
How they must leave the country of their birth, 
And hide, — in some more distant spot of earth. 

VII. 

It was a coward's thought : he could not bear 

Himself to be narrator of his shame ; 
He that had trampled oft, now felt in fear 

Of her who still must keep his blighted name, — 
And shrank in fancy from that steadfast eye, 
The window to a soul so pure and high. 

VIII. 

She heard it. O'er her brow there pass'd a flush 

Of sunset red ; and then so white a hue, 
So deadly pale, it seem'd as if no blush 

Through that transparent cheek should shine anew ; 
As if the blood had frozen in that hour, 
And her check'd pulse for ever lost its power. 



114 A DESTINY. 

IX. 

And twice and once did she essay to speak ; 

And with a gesture almost of command, 
(Though in its motion it was deadly weak) 

She faintly lifted up her graceful hand : — 
But then her soul came back to her, strength woke, 
And with a low but even voice, she spoke : 

X. 

" Go ! say to him who dream'd of other chance, 
That here none sit in judgment on his sin ; 

That to his door the world's scorn may advance, 
And cloud his path, but doth not enter in. 

Here dwell his Own : to share, to soothe disgrace ;"- 

Which having said, she cover'd up her face, 

XI. 

And, as he left her, sank in bitter prayer, — 

If prayer that may be term'd which comes to all, 

That sudden gushing of our vain despair, 

When none but God can hear or heed our call ; 

And the wreck'd soul feels, in its helpless hour, 

Where only dwells full mercy with full power. 



A DESTINY. 115 

XII. 

And he came home, a crush'd and humbled wretch ; 

Whom when she saw, she but this comfort found, 
In her kind arms that shrinking form to catch, 

Which tenderly about his neck she wound, 
As in the first proud days of love and trust, 
E'er yet his reckless head was bow'd in dust ! 

XIII. 

And they departed to a distant shore ; 

But wheresoe'er they dwelt, however lone, 
Shame, like a marble statue at his door, 

Flung her 'thwart shadow o'er his threshold stone ; 
Still darken'd all their daylight hours, and kept 
Cold watch above them even while they slept. 

XIV. 

And there was no more love between those two ! 

It died not in the shock of that dark hour — 
Such shocks destroy not love, whose purple hue 

Fades rather, like some autumn-wither'd flower, 
Which day by day along the ruin'd walk 
We see — then miss it from the sapless stalk ; 



116 A DESTINY. 

XV. 

And, while it fadeth, oft with gentle hand 

Doth memory tarn to life's dark journal-book ; 

And, passing foul misdeeds, intently stand 
On its first page of glorious hope to look ; 

Weeping she reads, — and, seeing all so fair, 

Pleads hard for what we are, by what we were ! 

XVI. 

So through that hour love lived ; and, though in part 

'Twas one of most unutterable pain, 
It had its sweetness too, and told her heart 

All she could do, and all she could sustain; 
The holy love of woman buoy'd her up, 
And God gave strength to drink the bitter cup. 

XVII. 

But when, as days crept on, she saw him still 
Less grateful than abash'd beneath her eye, 

And studying not how best to banish ill, 
But what he might conceal and what deny, 

Her soul revolted, and conceived a scorn, 

Sinful and harsh, although of virtue born. 



A DESTINY. 117 

XVIII. 
And oft she pray'd, with earnestness and pain, 

That heaven would bid that proud contempt depart, 
And wept to find the prayer and effort vain, 

Though it was breathed in agony of heart — 
Vain as the murmur of " Thy will be done/' 
Breathed by the death-bed of an only son! 

XIX. 

For when her children err'd (as children will) 
A sickening terror smote her heart with fears, 

And scarce she measured the degree of ill, 
Or made indulgence for their tender years ; 

They were his children ; and the chance of shame 

Kept watch for those who bore that father's name. 

XX. 

And, thinking thus, reproof wordd take a tone 
So strangely passionate, severe, and wild, — 

So deeply alter'd, — so unlike her own, — 
It stung and terrified her startled child, 

Whose innate sense of justice seem'd to show 

Him over-chidden, being chidden so. 



118 A DESTINY. 

XXI. 

And then a gush of mother's love would swell 
Her grieving heart, — and she would fondly press 

The young offending head she loved so well 
Close to her own, with many a soft caress, 

Whose reconciling sweetness all in vain 

Stopp'd her boy's tears, while her's ran down like rain. 

XXII. 

The world (which still pronounces from the show 
Of outward things) whisper'd and talk'cl of this ; 

Erring and obstinate, its crowds ne'er know 
How much in judging they may judge amiss, 

Or how much agony and broken peace 

May lie beneath the seeming of caprice ! 

XXIII. 

But he, her husband (for he was not dull), 

Saw through these workings of a troubled mind, 

And, that her cup of sorrow might be full, 
He taunted her with words and looks unkind, 

Which with a patient bowing of the heart 

She took — like one resolved to do her part. 



A DESTINY. H9 

XXIV. 

And years stole on (for years go by like days, 

Leaving but scatter'd hours to mark their course), 

And brightness faded from that lady's gaze, 

And her cheek hollow'd, and her step lost force. 

Till it was plain to even a careless eye 

That she was doom'd, before her time, to die. 

XXY. 

She died, as she had lived, her secret soul 

Shut from the sweet communion of true friends ; 

Her words, though not her thoughts, she could control, 
And still with calm respect his name she blends : 

They all stood round her whom she call'd her Own, 

And saw her die — yet was that death-bed lone ! 

XXVI. 

But in its darkest hour her thoughts were stirr'd, 
And something falter'd from her dying tongue, 

Mournful and tender — half pronounced, half heard — 
For which he was too base — his boys too young ; 

So, whatsoe'er the warning faintly given, 

It lay between her parting soul and Heaven. 



120 A DESTINY. 

XXVII. 

He wept for her — ah. ! who would not have wept 
To see that worn face in its pallid shroud, 

Proving how much she suffer'd ere she slept 
At peace for ever ! Violent and loud 

Was the outbreaking of his sudden grief, 

And, like all feelings in that heart, 'twas brief. 

XXVIII. 

And something strange pass'd o'er his soul instead, 
When thinking upon her whom he had lost, 

Almost like a relief that she was dead : — 

She, whose high nature scorn'd his fault the most, 

And show'd it least, — had vanish'd from the earth 

And none could check his sin, or shame his mirth. 

XXIX. 

So he return'd to many an evil way, 

Like one who strays when guiding light is gone ; 
And mid the profligate, miscall'd " the gay," 

Crept to a slippery place — his tale half known — 
111 look'd on, yet endured — the useful tool 
Of every bolder knave, or richer fool. 



A DESTINY. 121 

XXX. 

And his two sons in careless beauty grew, 

Like wild-flowers in his path : he mark'd them not, 

Nor reck'd he what they needed, learnt, or knew, 
Or what might be on earth their future lot ; 

But they died young — which is a thought of rest ! — 

Unscorn'd, untempted, undefiled — so best. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



THE CHAPEL ROYAL ST. JAMES'S, 

On the 10th February, 1840. 



Once more the people meet, 
With, glad expectant faces : once again 
The fair young monarch and her lovely train, 

With slow and gentle feet, 
Move in a solemn ceremony on ; 
And jewels glitter in the morning sun ! 

II. 

Not long, oh ! Time, not long 
It seems, since crown'd as Britain's welcome Queen, 
The like fair sight in fair array was seen ; 

And the hush'd listening throng, 
Watching those steps thro' Westminster's proud aisle, 
Wept with full hearts, tho' joyous all the while. 



126 THE CHAPEL ROYAL ST. JAMES'S. 

III. 

And they come forth anew, 
In bridal white, that gentle virgin band, 
The chosen flowers of Britain's happy land ; 

For holy love and true 
Hath wrought an hour of hope without alloy — 
A fairy sight of splendour and of joy. 

IV. 

There, — with her locks of light, 
Gleaming like gold around her noble head, — 
The orphan'd Eleanor, with stately tread, (') 

Went by, a vision bright ; 
Bidding sweet thoughts of love and triumph start 
Into a father's and a sister's heart. 

V. 

There, — in her beauty, pass'd 
Young Frances Co wper ; her transparent cheek 
Blushing the greetings which she might not speak. 

As on the crowd she cast 
The shy soft glances of those dark -blue eyes, 
In whose unfathom'd depth such sweetness lies ! 



THE CHAPEL ROYAL ST. JAMES'S. J27 

VI. 

There (with the spotless name), 
The gentle Howards, good, and fair, and mild, 
And bright-eyed Bouverie, noble Radnor's child, 

And rose-bud Villiers came ; 
And, with her sweet frank smile, young Ida Hay, 
Looking all gladness, like a morn in May. 

VII. 

There, brilliant Lennox moved ; 
The Paget beauty shining from her brow, 
And the dark, deer-like eyes that glanced below : 

While, gentle and beloved, 
Amid the glories of that courtly throng, 
Delawarr's youthful daughter pass'd along. 

VIII. 

There, (theme for poet's praise !) 
With swan like throat, and clear majestic eye, 
Verulam's stately Mary glided by ; — 

And, with her quiet gaze 
Fix'd sniiling on the scene which she survey'd, 
The soldier Anglesea's bright Adelaide. 



128 THE CHAPEL ROYAL ST. JAMES'S. 

IX. 

And she, whose orbs of blue, 
Like mountain lakes beheld by moonlight, gleam 
With all the shadowy softness of a dream 

Such as Endymion knew : 
Whose glossy locks with rich luxuriance twine 
Around her brow : the Lady Wilhelmine. 

X. 

Young were they all — and fair, — 
But thou, Victoria, held'st thy fitting place, 
As amongst garden-flowers the lily's grace, 

Blooms with a royal air ; 
And from that lovely various group, apart, 
Dids't stand, and gently look the Queen thou art. 

XL 

The smile thy young lip wore, 
Spoke joy to Him, who, from his distant home, 
Hath sped in wintry time o'er ocean's foam — 

To seek our island shore, 
With his frank heart, and brow so fair and true. 
Claiming thy love — and England's welcome too. 



THE CHAPEL ROYAL ST. JAMES'S. 3 29 

XII. 

Oh! may that welcome prove 
The herald of deep gladness ; — since in thee 
Old England's brightest hopes renew'd we see. 

All-hallow'd be thy love; 
And still with proud content the day allied, 
When Princely Albert claim'd his Eoyal Bride ! 

XIII. 

May He, whose gifted hand, 
Hath twined sweet wreaths of Poetry and Song; ( 2 ) 
Live happy among English hearts so long 

That, native to the land, 
He shall forget that e'er his harp was strung 
To any accents but our mother-tongue : 

XIV. 

And Thou, — Oh ! may the Crown 
Which in youth's freshest, earliest moment, graced 
The brow, whose childhood's roses it replaced, 

Ne'er weigh thy spirit down ; 
Nor tearful hours, nor careful thoughts, beguile 
One ray of gladness from thy gracious smile : 

g 3 



130 THE CHAPEL ROYAL ST. JAMES'S. 

XV. 

But brightly to the last, 
Fair Fortune shine, with calm and steady ray. 
Upon the tenor of thy happy way ; 

A future like the past: 
And every prayer by loyal subjects said, 
Bring down a separate blessing on thy head ! 



NOTES. 



Note 1. — Page 126. 

" The orphan'd Eleanor, with stately tread." 

The exact order in which the young ladies present on this 
eventful occasion, as trainbearers, followed Her Majesty, is not 
preserved in the poem; the names being necessarily arranged 
as would suit the verse. Taking the names in the order of the 
poem, the trainbearers were, — The Lady Eleanor Paget, daughter 
of the Earl of Uxbridge (Lord Chamberlain to the Queen), by his 
first Countess. The Lady Fanny Cowper, daughter of Countess 
Cowper (now Viscountess Palmerston). The Lady E. Howard, 
daughter of the Earl and Countess of Carlisle, and sister of the 
Duchess of Sutherland. The Lady Mary Howard, daughter of 
the Earl and Countess of Surrey. The Lady Anne Bouverie, 
daughter of the Earl and Countess of Radnor. The Lady 
Sarah Villiers, daughter of the Earl and Countess of Jersey. 
The Lady Ida Hay, daughter of the Earl and Countess of 
Errol. The Lady Caroline Lennox, daughter of the Duke and 
Duchess of Richmond. The Lady Elizabeth West, daughter 
of the Earl and Countess Delawarr. The Lady Mary Grim- 
stone, daughter of the Earl and Countess of Verulam. The 



132 ^OTES. 

Lady Adelaide Paget, daughter of the Marquis and Marchioness 
of Anglesea. The Lady Wilhelmine Stanhope, daughter of the 
Earl and Countess Stanhope. 

Note 2.— Page 129. 

" May He, whose gifted hand 
Hath twined sweet wreaths of Poetry and Song" 

His Royal Highness Prince Albert is himself a poet and musician; 
and some of his early compositions, written in German and set to 
music, have been lately published in this country. 



ON SEEING ANTHONY, 



THE ELDEST CHILD OF 



LORD AND LADY ASHLEY. 



I. 

It was a fair and gentle child 

Stood leaning by his mother's knee ; 

His noble brow was smooth and mild — 
His eyes shone bright with frolic glee- 

And he was stately, though so young: 

As from a noble lineage sprung. 

II. 

So, gazing on him, as we gaze 
Upon a bud, whose promise yet 

Lies shut from all the glowing rays 
Which afterwards iUumine it : 

I marvell'd what the fruit might be 

When that fair plant became a tree. 



134 °N SEEING ANTHONY ASHLEY. 

III. 

All ! then, what dreams of proud success, 
That lordly brow of beauty brought, 

With all its infant stateliness, 

And all its unripe power of thought ! 

What triumphs, boundless, unconfined, 

Came crowding on my wand'ring mind! 

IV. 

I gave that child, the voice might hold 

A future senate in command ; 
Head clear and prompt — heart true and bold- 

As quick to act as understand : 
I dream'd the scholar's fame achieved — 
The hero's wreath of laurel weaved ! 

V. 

But as I mused, a whisper came 

Which (like a friend's reproachful tone, 

Whose gentleness can smite with shame 
Far more than fiercest word or frown;) 

Housed my vex'd conscience by its spell, 

And thus the whisper'd warning fell : — 



ON SEEING ANTHONY ASHLEY. 135 

VI. 

66 Ah ! let the shrouded future be, 

With all its weight of distant care ! 
Cloud not with dreams of vanity 

That blue bright eye, and forehead fair ! 
Nor cast thy worldly hopes and fears 
In shadow o'er his happy years ! 

VII. 

" Desire not, even in thy dreams, 

To hasten those remoter hours 
Which, bright although their promise seems, 

Must strip his spring-time of its flowers ! — ■ 
What triumph, in the time to come, 
Shall match these early days of home f 

VIII. 

" This is the Eden of his life, — 

His little heart bounds glad and free : 

Amid a world of toil and strife, 
All independent smileth he ! 

Nor dreams by that sweet mother's side 

Of dark Ambition's restless pride. 



136 ON SEEING ANTHONY ASHLEY. 

IX. 
" But, like a bird in winter, — still 

Fill'd with a sweet and natural joy, 
Tho' frost lies bleak upon the hill, 

And mists obscure the cold grey sky, 
Which sings, tho' on a leafless bough, — 
He smiles, even at the gloomiest brow !" 

X. 

Oh ! looking on a child's fair face 
Methinks should purify the heart ; 

As angel presences have grace 
To bid the darker powers depart, 

And glorify our grosser sense 

With a reflected innocence ! 

XI. 

And seeing thee, thou lovely boy, 

My soul, reproach'd, gave up its schemes 

Of worldly triumph's heartless joy, 
For purer and more sinless dreams, 

And mingled in my farewell there 

Something of blessing and of prayer. 



THE DYING HOUR 



' Te teneam moriens, deficiente manu."' 



I. 

Oh ! watch, me ; watch, me still 

Thro' the long night's dreary hours, 

Uphold by thy firm will 

Worn Nature's sinking powers ! 

II. 

While yet thy face is there 

(The loose locks round it flying), 

So young, and fresh, and fair, 
I feel not I am dying ! 

III. 

Stoop down, and kiss my brow ! 

The shadows round me closing 
Warn me that dark and low 

I soon shall be reposing. 



138 THE DYING HOUR. 

IV. 

But while those pitying eyes 
Are bending thus above me, 

In vain the death-dews rise, — 
Thou dost regret and love me ! 

V. 

Then watch me thro' the night, 
Thro' my broken, fitful slumber ; 

By the pale lamp's sickly light 
My dying moments number ! 

VI. 

Thy fond and patient smile 

Shall soothe my painful waking ; 

Thy voice shall cheer me while 
The slow grey dawn is breaking ! 

VII. 

The battle-slain, whose thirst 
No kindly hand assuages, 

Whose low faint farewells burst 
Unheard, while combat rages, — 



THE DYING HOUR. 139 

VIII. 

The exiled, near whose bed 

Some vision'd form seems weeping, 
Whose steps shall never tread 

The land where he lies sleeping, — 

IX. 

The drown'd, whose parting breath 

Is caught by wild winds only, — 
Theirs is the bitter death, 

Beloved, for they die lonely ! 

X. 

But thus, tho' rack'd, to he, 

Thou near, tho' full of sadness, 
Leaves still, e'en while I die, 

A lingering gleam of gladness ! 

XI. 

I feel not half my pain 

When to mine thy fond lip presses, — - 
I warm to life again 

Beneath thy soft caresses ! 



140 THE DYING HOUR. 

XII. 

Once more, oh! yet once more 

Fling, fling thy white arms round me, 

As oft in days of yore 

Their gentle clasp hath bound me ; 

XIII. 

And hold me to that breast 

Which heaves so full with sorrow — 

Who knows where I may rest 

In the dark and blank to-morrow ? 

XIV. 

Ah ! weep not — it shall be 

An after-thought to cheer thee, 

That while mine eyes could see, 

And while mine ears could hear thee— 

XV. 

Thy voice and smile were still 
The spells on which I doated, 

And thou, through good and ill, 
To me and mine devoted ! 



THE DYING HOUR. |4[ 

XVI. 

And calmly by my tomb, 

When the low bright day declineth, 
And athwart the cypress gloom 

The mellow sunset shineth, — 

XVII. 

Thou'lt sit and think of Him, 

Who, of Heaven's immortal splendour, 

Had a dream on earth, though dim, 
In thy love so pure and tender, — 

XVIII. 

Who scarcely feels thy touch, — 

Whom thy voice can rouse no longer, — 

But whose love on earth was such, 
That only death was stronger. 

XIX. 

Yes, sit, but not in tears ! 

Thine eyes in faith uplifting, 
From thy lot of changeful years, 

To the Heaven where naught is shifting. 



142 THE DYING HOUR. 

XX. 

From this world, where all who love 
Are doomed alike to sever, 

To the glorious realms above, 

Where they dwell in peace for ever ! 

XXI. 

And then such hope shall beam 

From the grave where I He sleeping, 

This bitter hour shall seem 

Too vague and far for weeping — 

XXII. 

And grief — ah ! hold me now ! 

My fluttering pulse is failing, — 
The death-dews chill my brow, — 

The morning light is paling ! 

XXIII. 
I seek thy gaze in vain, — 

Earth reels and fades before me : 
I die ! — but feel no pain, — 

Thy sweet face shining o'er me ! 



I CANNOT LOVE THEE! 



[Attention having been called to the following Poem by those who have favour- 
ably reviewed my book, it is perhaps only fair to state that the idea was taken, 
and amplified from a French ballad, j 



I cannot love th.ee, tho' thy soul 
Be one which all good thoughts control ; 
Altho' thy eyes be starry bright, 
And the gleams of golden light 
Fall upon thy silken hair, 
And thy forehead, broad and fair ; 
Something of a cold disgust, 
(Wonderful, and most unjust,) 
Something of a sullen fear 
Weighs my heart when thou art near ; 
And my soul, which cannot twine 
Thought or sympathy with thine, 
With a coward instinct tries 
To hide from thy enamour'd eyes, 
Wishing for a sudden blindness 
To escape those looks of kindness • 



144 I CANNOT LOVE THEE! 

Sad she folds her shivering wings 
From the love thy spirit brings , 
Like a chained thing, caress'd 
By the hand it knows the best, 
By the hand which, day by day, 
Visits its imprison' d stay, 
Bringing gifts of fruit and blossom 
From the green earth's plenteous bosom ; 
All but that for which it pines 
In those narrow close confines, 
With a sad and ceaseless sigh — 
Wild and winged Liberty ! 



Can it be, no instinct dwells 
In th' immortal soul, which tells 
That thy love, oh ! human brother, 
Is unwelcome to another ? 
Can the changeful wavering eye, 
Raised to thine in forced reply, — 
Can the cold constrained smile, 
Shrinking from thee all the while, — 
Satisfy thy heart, or prove 
Such a likeness of true love ? 



I CANNOT LOVE THEE ! 

Seems to me, that I should guess 
By what a world of bitterness, 
By what a gulf of hopeless care, 
Our two hearts divided were : 
Seems to me that I should know 
All the dread that lurk'd below, 
By the want of answer found 
In the voice's trembling sound ; 
By the unresponsive gaze ; 
By the smile which vainly plays, 
In whose cold imperfect birth 
Glows no fondness, lives no mirth ; 
By the sigh, whose different tone 
Hath no echo of thine own ; 
By the hand's cold clasp, which still 
Held as not of its free will, 
Shrinks, as it for freedom yearn'd; — 
That my love was unreturn'd. 



When thy tongue (ah ! woe is me !) 
Whispers love-vows tenderly, 
Mine is shaping, all unheard, 
Fragments of some withering word, 



145 



146 I CANNOT LOVE THEE! 

Which, by its complete farewell, 
Shall divide us like a spell ! 
And my heart beats loud and fast, 
Wishing that confession past ; 
And the tide of anguish rises, 
Till its strength my soul surprises, 
And the reckless words, unspoken, 
Nearly have the silence broken, 
With a gush like some wild river, — 
" Oh ! depart, depart for ever ! " 

But my faltering courage fails, 
And my drooping spirit quails ; 
So sweet-earnest looks thy smile 
Full of tenderness the while, 
And with such strange pow'r are gifted 
The eyes to which my own are lifted ; 
So my faint heart dies away, 
And my lip can nothing say, 
And I long to be alone, — 
For I weep when thou art gone ! 

Yes, I weep, but then my soul, 
Free to ponder o'er the whole, 



I CANNOT LOVE THEE! 147 

Free from fears which check'd its thought, 

And the pain thy presence brought, 

Whispers me the useless lie, — 

" For thy love he will not die, 

Such pity is but vanity." 

And I bend my weary head 

O'er the tablets open spread, 

Whose fair pages me invite 

All I dared not say to write ; 

And my fingers take the pen, 

And my heart feels braced again 

With a resolute intent ; — 

But, ere yet that page be sent, 

Once I view the written words 

Which must break thy true heart's chords ; 

And a vision, piercing bright, 

Rises on my coward sight, 

Of thy fond hand, gladly taking 

What must set thy bosom aching ; 

While too soon the brittle seal 

Bids the page the worst reveal, 

Blending in thy eager gaze — 

Scorn, and anguish, and amaze. 

B'Z 



148 I CANNOT LOVE THEE! 

Powerless, then, my hand reposes 
On the tablet which it closes, 
With a cold and shivering sense 
Born of Truth's omnipotence : 
And my weeping blots the leaves, 
And my sinking spirit grieves, 
Humbled in that bitter hour 
By very consciousness of power ! 
What am I, that I should be 
Such a source of woe to thee ? 
What am I, that I should dare 
Thus to play with thy despair, 
And persuade myself that thou 
Wilt not bend beneath the blow ? 



Rather should my conscience move 
Me to think of this vain love, 
Which my life of peace beguiles, 
As a tax on foolish smiles, 
Which — like light not meant for one 
Who, wandering in the dark alone, 
Hath yet been tempted by its ray 
To turn aside and lose his way— 



I CANNOT LOVE THEE! J49 

Binds me, by their careless sin, 
To take the misled wanderer in. 



And I praise thee, as I go, 
Wandering, weary, fall of woe, 
To my own unwilling heart ; 
Cheating it to take thy part 
By rehearsing each rare merit 
Which thy nature doth inherit. 
To myself their list I give, 
Most prosaic, positive : — 
How thy heart is good and true, 
And thy face most fair to view ; 
How the powers of thy mind 
Flatterers in the wisest find, 
And the talents God hath given 
Seem as held in trust for Heaven ; 
Labouring on for noble ends, — 
Steady to thy boyhood's friends, — 
Slow to give, or take, offence, — 
Full of earnest eloquence, — 
Hopeful, eager, gay of cheer, — 
Frank in all thy dealings here,- 



150 I CANNOT LOVE THEE! 

Eeady to redress the wrong 
Of trie weak against the strong,- — 
Keeping up an honest pride 
With those the world hath deified, 
But gently bending heart and brow 
To the helpless and the low ; — 
How, in brief, there dwells in thee 
All that 's generous and free, 
All that may most aptly move 
My Spirit to an answering love. 



But in vain the tale is told ; 

Still my heart lies dead and cold, 

Still it wanders and rebels 

From the thought that thus compels, 

And refuses to rejoice 

Save in unconstrained choice. 



Therefore, when thine eyes shall read 
This, my book, oh take thou heed ! 
In the dim lines written here, 
All shall be explained and clear ; 



I CANNOT LOVE THEE! 151 

All my lips could never speak 
When my heart grew coward- weak, — 
All my hand could never write, 
Tho' I planned it day and night, — 
All shall be at length confest, 
And thou'lt forgive, — and let me rest ! 
None but thou and I shall know 
Whose the doom, and whose the woe ; 
None but thou and I shall share 
In the secret printed there ; 
It shall be a secret still, 
Tho' all look on it at will ; 
And the eye shall read in vain 
What the heart cannot explain. 
Each one, baffled in his turn, 
Shall no more its aim discern, 
Than a wanderer who might look 
On some wizard's magic book, 
Of the darkly- worded spell 
Where deep-hidden meanings dwell. 
Memory, fancy, they shall task 
This sad riddle to unmask, — 
Or, with bold conjectural fame, 
Fit the pages with a name ; — - 



152 J CANNOT LOVE THEE! 

But nothing shall they understand, 
And vainly shall the stranger's hand 
Essay to fling the leaves apart, 
Which bear my message to thy heart ! 



THE POET'S CHOICE. 



I. 

'Twas in youth, that hour of dreaming ; 
Round me, visions fair were beaming, 
Golden fancies, brightly gleaming, 

Such as start to birth 
When the wandering restless mind, 
Drunk with beauty, thinks to find 
Creatures of a fairy kind 

Realised on Earth! 

II. 

Then, for me, in every dell 
Hamadryads seem'd to dwell 
(They who die, as Poets tell, 

Each with her own tree) ; 
And sweet mermaids, low reclining, 
Dim light through their grottos shining, 
Green weeds round their soft limbs twining, 

Peopled the deep Sea. 

h 3 



154 THE POETS CHOICE. 



III. 

Then, when moon and stars were fair, 
Nymph-like visions fill'd the air, 
With bine wings and golden hair 

Bending from the skies ; 
And each cave by echo hannted 
In its depth of shadow granted, 
Brightly, the Egeria wanted, 

To my eager eyes. 



IV. 

Bnt those glories pass'd away; 
Earth seem'd left to dull decay, 
And my heart in sadness lay, 

Desolate, uncheer'd ; 
Like one wrapt in painful sleeping, 
Pining, thirsting, waking, weeping, 
Watch thro' Life's dark midnight keeping, 

Till thy form appear'd ! 



THE POETS CHOICE, 155 



V. 



Then my soul, whose erring measure 
Knew not where to find true pleasure, 
Woke and seized the golden treasure 

Of thy human love ; 
And, looking on thy radiant brow, 
My lips in gladness breathed the vow 
Which angels, not more fair than thou, 

Have register'd above. 



VI. 

And now I take my quiet rest, 
With my head upon thy breast, 
I will make no further quest 

In Fancy's realms of light ; 
Fay, nor nymph, nor winged spirit, 
Shall my store of love inherit ; 
More thy mortal charm doth merit 

Than dream, however bright : 



156 TH E POETS CHOICE. 



VII. 

And my soul, — like some sweet bird 
Whose song at summer eve is heard, 
When the breeze, so lightly stirr'd, 

Leaves the branch unbent,- 
Sits and all-triumphant sings, 
Folding up her brooding wings, 
And gazing out on earthly things 

With a calm content. 



THE GERMAN STUDENT'S LOVE-SONG. 

" Ich liebe dich !" 



I. 

By the rush of the Rhine's broad stream, 

Down whose rapid tide 
We sailed as in some sweet dream 

Sitting side by side ; 
By the depth of its clear blue wave 

And the vine -clad hills, 
Which gazed on its heart and gave 

Their tribute rills : 



By the mountains, in purple shade, 

And those valleys green 
Where our bower of rest was made, 

By the world unseen ; 



158 THE GERMAN STUDENTS LOVE-SONG. 

By the notes of the wild free bird, 

Singing over-head, 
When nought else in the sunshine stirr'd 

Bound our flowery bed ; 

By these, and by Love's power divine, 
I have no thought but what is thine ! 



II. 

By the glance of thy radiant eyes, 

Where a glory shone 
That was half of the summer skies 

And half their own ; 
By the light and yet fervent hold 

Of thy gentle hand, — 
(As the woodbines the flowers enfold 

With their tender band ;) 



By thy voice when it breathes in song, 

And the echo given 
By lips that to Earth belong, 

Float up to Heaven ; 



THE GERMAN STUDENTS LOVE-SONG. 159 

By the gleams on thy silken hair 

At the sunset hour, 
And the breadth of thy forehead fair 

With its thoughtful power ; 

By these, and by Love's soul divine, 
I have no hope but what is thine ! 



III. 

By the beauty and stillness round 

When the lake's lone shore 
Scarce echoed the pleasant sound 

Of the distant oar ; 
By the moonlight which softly fell 

On all objects near, 
When thy whisper seemed like a spell 

In thy Lover's ear ; 



By the dreams of the restless past, 
And the hope that came 

Like sunshine in shadow cast 
With thy gentle name ; 



160 THE GERMAN STUDENT'S LOVE-SONG. 

By the beat of thy good true heart 
Where pure thoughts have birth ; 

By thy tears, when Fate bade us part, 
And thy smiles of mirth; 

By these, and by Love's power divine, 
I have no hope but what is thine ! 



IV. 

By the gloom of those holy fanes 

"Where the light stream'd through 
Dim orange and purple panes 

On the aisles below ; 
By the ruin'd and roofless wall 

Of that castle high, 
With its turrets so grey and tall 

In the clear blue sky ; 



By beauty, because its light 
Should thy portion be, 

And whatever is fair and bright 
Seems a part of thee ; 



THE GERMAN STUDENTS LOVE-SONG. 161 

And by darkness and blank decay, 

Because they tell 
What the world would be, thou away. 

Whom I love so well; 

By these, and by Love's power divine, 
My heart, my soul, my life, are thine ! 



THE HUNTING-HORN OF CHARLEMAGNE. 



[Among other relics preserved in the Cathedral at Aix-la-Chapelle is the ivory 
hunting-horn of Charlemagne. It is massive and heavy, and the attempt of 
the guide to sound it (for the amusement of tovirists and strangers) is singu- 
larly unsuccessful, the note produced being the most faint and lugubrious 
which it is possible to conceive.] 



Sound not the Horn! — the guarded relic keep : 
A faithful sharer of its master's sleep : 
His life it gladden'd — to his life belong'd, — 
Pause — ere thy lip the royal dead hath wrong'd. 
Its weary weight but mocks thy feeble hand ; 
Its desolate note, the shrine wherein we stand. 
Not such the sound it gave in days of yore, 
When that rich belt a monarch's bosom wore, — 
Not such the sound ! Far over hill and dell 
It waked the echoes with triumphant swell ; 



THE HUNTING-HORN OF CHARLEMAGNE. 163 

Heard midst the riishing of the torrent's fall, 
From castled crag to roofless ruin'd hall, 
Down the ravine's precipitous descent, 
Thro' the wild forest's rustling bonghs it went, 
Upon the lake's bine bosom linger'd fond, 
And faintly answer'd from the hills beyond : 



Pause ! — the free winds that joyous blast have borne :- 
Dead is the hunter ! — silent be the horn ! 



Sound not the horn ! Bethink thee of the day 
When to the chase an Emperor led the way ; 
In all the pride of manhood's noblest prime, 
Untamed by sorrow, and untired by time, 
Life's pulses throbbing in his eager breast, 
Glad, active, vigorous, — who is now at rest : — 
How he gazed round him with his eagle eye, 
Leapt the dark rocks that frown against the sky, 
Grasp'd the long spear, and curb'd the panting steed 
(Whose fine nerves quiver with his headlong speed). 
At the wild cry of danger smiled in scorn, 
And firmly sounded that re-echoing horn! 



164 THE HUNTING-HORN OF CHARLEMAGNE. 

Ah ! let no touch the ivory tube profane 
Which drank the breath of living Charlemagne ; 
Let not like blast by meaner lips be blown. 
But by the hunter's side the horn lay down ! 



Or, following to his palace, dream we now 
Not of the hunter's strength, or forest bough, 
But woman's love ! Her offering this, perchance,- 
This, granted to each stranger's casual glance, 
This, gazed upon with coldly curious eyes, 
Was giv'n with blushes, and received with sighs ! 
We see her not ; — no mournful angel stands 
To guard her love-gift from our careless hands ; 
But fancy brings a vision to our view — 
A woman's form, the trusted and the true : 
The strong to suffer, tho' so weak to dare, 
Patient to watch thro' many a day of care, 
Devoted, anxious, generous, void of guile, 
And with her whole heart's welcome in her smile ; 
Even such I see ! Her maidens, too, are there, 
And wake, with chorus sweet, some native air ; 
But tho' her proud heart holds her country dear, 
And tho' she loves those happy songs to hear, 



THE HUNTING-HORN OF CHARLEMAGNE. 165 

She bids the tale be hush'd, the harp be still, 

For one faint blast that dies along the hill. 

Up, up, she springs ; her young head backward thrown ; 

r He comes ! my hunter comes ! — Mine own — mine own ! " 



She loves, and she is loved — her gift is worn- 
'Tis fancy, all ! — And yet — lay down the horn ! 



Love — life — what are ye ? — since to love and live 
No surer record to our times can give ! 
Low lies the hero now, whose spoken name 
Could fire with glory, or with love inflame ; 
Low lies the arm of might, the form of pride, 
And dim tradition dreameth by his side. 
Desolate stand those painted palace-halls, 
And gradual ruin mines the massy walls, 
"Where frank hearts greeted many a welcome guest, 
And loudly rang the beaker and the jest ; — 
While here, within this chapel's narrow bound, 
Whose frozen silence startles to the sound 
Of stranger voices ringing thro' the air, 
Or faintly echoes many a humble prayer ; 



166 TH E HUNTING-HORN OF CHARLEMAGNE. 

Here, where the window, narrow arch'd, and high, 
With jealous bars shuts out the free blue sky, — 
Where glimmers down, with various-painted ray, 
A prison'd portion of God's glorious day, — 
Where never comes the breezy breath of morn, 
Here mighty hunter, feebly wakes thy horn ! 



THE FAITHFUL FEIEND. 



" Coming through the churchyard here, I espied a young man who had flung 
himself down on a grave to weep, and who ever and anon repeated, with most 
passionate lamentations, ' O, friend ! faithful friend ! ' Respecting his grief, I 
passed on, marvelling as I went what manner of man he had been who slept 
under that stone." — Letters of a Tourist. 



O, friend ! whose heart the grave doth shroud from human 

joy or woe, 
Know'st thou who wanders by thy tomb, with footsteps sad 

and slow ? 
Know'st thou whose brow is dark with grief ? whose eyes 

are dim with tears ? 
Whose restless soul is sinking with its agony of fears ? 
Whose hope hath fail'd, whose star hath sunk, whose firmest 

trust deceived, 
Since, leaning on thy faithful breast, he loved and he 

believed ? 



X58 THE FAITHFUL FRIEND. 

'T is I ! — Return and comfort me, for old remembrance' 

sake, — 
Prom the long silence of the tomb — the cheerless tomb — 

awake ! 
I listen — all is still as death — no welcome step is nigh, — 
I call thee, but thou answerest not — the grave hath no 

reply ! 
But mournfully the strange bright sun shines on thy funeral 

stone, 
And sadly, in the cypress bough, the wild wind makes her 



When we were young, and cheerfully the promised 

future glow'd, 
I little thought to stand alone by this thy last abode ; 
I little thought, in early days, O generous and kind ! 
That thou, the first, shouldst quit the earth, and leave me, 

wreck'd, behind. 



Thine was the pure unjealous love ! I know they told us 
then 
That Genius's gifts divided me from dull and common men ; 



THE FAITHFUL FRIEND. I59 

That thou wert slow to science ; that the chart and letter'd 

page 
Had in them no deep spell whereby thy spirit to engage ; 
But rather thou wouldst sail thy boat, or sound thy bugle 

horn, 
Or track the sportsman's triumph thro' the fields of waving 

corn, 
Than o'er the pond'rous histories of other ages bend, 
Or dwell upon the sweetest page that poet ever penn'd : 
And it was true ! Our minds were cast as pleased the will 

of Heaven, 
And different powers unto me, and unto thee, were given ! 
No trick of talent deck'd thy speech and glorified thy 

youth, — 
Its simple spell of eloquence lay in its earnest truth ; 
Nor was the gladsome kindliness which brighten'd on thy 

brow, 
The beauty which in fiction wins Love's fond romantic vow; 
But gazing on thine honest face, intelligently bold, 
Oft have I doubted of the gifts which men so precious 

hold- 
Wit, learning, wealth, seem'd overprized, since thou, dear 

friend, couldst be 
So closely knit unto my heart by thy simplicity. 



170 THE FAITHFUL FRIEND. 

The worldly-wise may sneer at this, and scorn thee, if 

they will, — 
Thy judgment was not sharpen'd by the cunning of their 

skill; 
No deep and calculating thoughts lay buried in thy breast, 
To chill and vex thy honest heart, and startle it from rest ; 
No dream of cold philosophy, to make thee doubt and sigh, 
And fawn and flatter half thy kind, and pass the others by ! 
And there thou liest forgotten — thou faithful friend, and 

true — 
Thy resting-place beneath the cold damp shadow of the 

yew ; 
And quietly within the tomb's dark precincts wert thou 

laid, 
As a faded leaf unnoticed drops within the forest's shade. 



How should the world have tears for thee ? — the world 

hath nothing lost — 
No parent's high ambitious hope thy early death hath 

crost ; 
No sculptured falsehood gives to fame thy monumental 

stone, — 
From the glory of our Senate-house, no orator is gone : 



THE FAITHFUL FRIEND. 171 

Science hath lost no well-known name, — no soldier's heart 

shall bound. 
Linking old England's victories with that inglorious 

sound; 
No jealous and tomb-trampling foe shall find it worth his 

while, 
With a false history of thy acts, thy country to beguile ; 
No mercenary hand in haste prepare the letter'd tome, 
And publicly reveal the fond small weaknesses of Home ; 
Nor some vainglorious friend (who yet hath lov'd thee to 

the last) 
Permit all men to buy and sell his records of the past; 
Nor give thy living letters up, nor print thy dying words ; 
Nor sweep with sacrilegious hand Affection's holy chords ; 
Nor with a frozen after-thought dissect thy generous 

heart, 
And count each pulse that bid thy blood gush with a quicker 

start. 



No ! Blest Obscurity was thine ! In sacred darkness 
dwells 
The mem'ry of thy last fond looks and faltering fare- 
wells; 

1 2 



172 THE FAITHFUL FRIEND. 

And none shall drag thy actions forth, for Slander or for 

Praise, 
To that broad light which never glowed round thy unno- 
ticed days. 
At times a recollected jest, or snatch of meny song, 
Which was so thine, that still to thee its ringing notes 

belong, 
To boon companions back again thy image may recal, — 
But lightly sits thy memory, oh Faithful Friend, on all ! 
The old house still hath echoes glad; tho' silent be thy 

voice, 
Thy empty place at bed and board forbids not to rejoice ! 
Still with its white and gleaming sail, by strangers launch'd 

to float 
Across the blue lake in the sun, glides on thy little boat ; 
Thy steed another rider backs, — thy dogs new masters find, 
But I, — /mourn thy absence still, thou generous and kind: 
Since I have lost thy pleasant smile, and voice of ringing 

mirth, 
A silence and a darkness seem come down upon the earth ; 
A weight sits heavy on my heart, and clogs my weary 

feet, 
For, wander where I will, thy glance I never more shall 

meet. 



THE FAITHFUL FRIEND. 173 

I cannot knit my soul again ; my thoughts are wide astray 
When others by my side would wile an hour or two away ; 
My door flings wide to welcome in some less familiar 

face, 
And my heart struggles hard to fill thy ever vacant place ; 
But all in vain! Dim thoughts of thee across my bosom 

steal, 
And still, the louder mirth around, the lonelier I feel ; 
Yea, even that should make me proud, the laurel wreath of 

Fame 
But brings me back, in bitterness, the echo of thy 

name ; 
But brings me back thy cheerful smile, when yet a careless 

boy, 
Mine was the toil, but thou didst share the glory and the 

j°y; 

And bright across the awarded prize thy kind eye answer'd 

mine, 
As full of triumph and delight as though that prize were 

thine. 
Yes ! all is vain ! I want not Wit, I want not Learning's 

power, 
I want thy hand, I want thy smile to pass the cheerless 

hour ; 



174 THE FAITHFUL FRIEND. 

I want thy earnest, honest voice, whose comfort never fail'd ; 
I want thy kindly glance, whose light no coldness ever 

veil'd; 
I feel at every turn of life thy loss hath left me lone, 
And I mourn the friend of boyhood's years, the friend for 

ever gone ! 



TO FERDINAND SEYMOUR. 



Rosy child, with, forehead fair, 
Coral lip, and shining hair, 
In whose mirthful, clever eyes 
Such a world of gladness lies ; 
As thy loose curls idly straying 
O'er thy mother's cheek, while playing, 
Blend her soft lock's shadowy twine 
With the glittering light of thine, — 
Who shall say, who gazes now, 
Which is fairest, she or thou ? 



In sweet contrast are ye met, 
Such as heart could ne'er forget : 
Thou art brilliant as a flower, 
Crimsoning in the sunny hour ; 
Merry as a singing-bird, 
In the green wood sweetly heard ; 



176 T0 FERDINAND SEYMOUR. 

Restless as if fluttering -wings 
Bore thee on thy wanderings ; 
Ignorant of all distress, 
Full of childhood's carelessness. 



She is gentle ; she hath known 
Something of the echoed tone 
Sorrow leaves, where'er it goes, 
In this world of many woes. 
On her brow such shadows are 
As the faint cloud gives the star, 
Veiling its most holy light, 
Tho' it still be pure and bright ; 
And the colour in her cheek 
To the hue on thine is weak, 
Save when nush'd with sweet surprise, 
Sudden welcomes light her eyes ; 
And her softly chisel'd face 
(But for living, moving grace) 
Looks like one of those which beam 
In th' Italian painter's dream, — 
Some beloved Madonna, bending 
O'er the infant she is tending ; 



TO FERDINAND SEYMOUR. 177 

Holy, bright, and undefiled 
Mother of the Heaven-born child ; 
Who, tho' painted strangely fair, 
Seems but made for holy prayer, 
Pity, tears, and sweet appeal, 
And fondness such as angels feel ; 
Baffling earthly passion's sigh 
With serenest majesty! 



Oh ! may those enshrouded years 
Whose fair dawn alone appears, — 
May that brightly budding life, 
Knowing yet nor sin nor strife, — 
Bring its store of hoped-for joy, 
Mother, to thy laughing boy ! 
And the good thou dost impart 
Lie deep -treasured in his heart, 
That, when he at length shall strive 
In the bad world where we live, 
Thy sweet name may still be blest 
As one who taught his soul true rest ! 

Maiden-Bradley, 1838. 

i 3 



THE WINTER'S WALK. 

[Written after walking with Mr. Rogers.] 



Mark'd — as the hours should be, Fate bids us spend 
With one illustrious, or a cherish'd friend — 
Rich in the value of that double claim, 
Since Fame allots the friend a Poet's name, — 
My " Winter's Walk " asserts its right to live 
Amongst the brightest thoughts my life can give, 
And leaves a track of light on Memory's way 
Which oft shall gild the future Summer's day. 



Gleam'd the red sun athwart the misty haze 
Which veil'd the cold earth from its loving gaze, 
Feeble and sad as Hope in Sorrow's hour, — 
But for thy soul it still had warmth and power ; 
Not to its cheerless beauty wert thou blind, 
To the keen eye of thy poetic mind 



THE WINTERS WALK. 179 

Beauty still lives, tho' nature's now'rets die, 
And wintry sunsets fade along the sky ! 
And nought escaped thee as we stroll'd along, 
Nor changeful ray, nor bird's faint chirping song ; 
Bless'd with a fancy easily inspired, 
All was beheld, and nothing unachnired ; 
From the dim city to the clouded plain, 
Not one of all God's blessings giv'n in vain. 



And many an anecdote of other times, — 

Good earnest deeds, — quaint wit, — and polished rhymes,- 

Many a sweet story of remembered years 

Which thrilled the listening heart with unshed tears, — ■ 

Unweariedly thy willing tongue rehearsed, 

And made the hour seem brief as we conversed. 



Ah ! who can e'er forget, who once hath heard, 
The gentle charm that dwells in every word 
Of thy calm converse ? In its kind allied 
To some fair river's bright abundant tide, 
Whose silver gushing current onward goes, 
Fluent and varying ; yet with such repose 



180 THE WINTERS WALK. 

As smiles even through, the flashings of thy wit, 
In every eddy that doth ruffle it. 
Who can forget, who at thy social board 
Hath sat, — and seen the pictures richly stored, 
In all their tints of glory and of gloom, 
Brightening the precincts of thy quiet room ; 
With busts and statues full of that deep grace 
Which modern hands have lost the skill to trace, 
(Fragments of beauty — perfect as thy song 
On that sweet land to which they did belong,) 
Th' exact and classic taste by thee displayed ; 
Not with a rich man's idle fond parade, 
Not with the pomp of some vain connoisseur 
Proud of his bargains, of his judgment sure, 
But with the feelings kind and sad, of one 
Who thro 5 far countries wandering hath gone, 
And brought away dear keepsakes, to remind 
His heart and home of all he left behind. 



But wherefore these, in feeble rhyme recal ? 
Thy taste, thy wit, thy verse, are known to all ; 
Such things are for the World, and therefore doth 
The World speak of them ; loud, and nothing loth 



THE WINTERS WALK. jgj 

To fancy that the talent stamped by Heaven 
Is nought unless their echoed praise be given, 
A worthless ore not yet allowed to shine, 
A diamond darkly buried in its mine. 
These are thy daylight qualities, whereon 
Beams the full lustre of their garish sun, 
And the keen point of many a famed reply 
Is what they would not " willingly let die." 
But by a holier light thy angel reads 
The unseen records of more gentle deeds, — 
And by a holier light thy angel sees 
The tear oft shed for humble miseries, — 
The alms dropp'd gently in the beggar's hand, 
(Who in his daily poverty doth stand 
Watching for kindness on thy pale calm brow, 
Ignorant to whom he breathes his grateful vow). 
Th' indulgent hour of kindness stol'n away 
From the free leisure of thy well-spent day, 
For some poor struggling Son of Genius, bent 
Under the weight of heart-sick discontent ; 
Whose prayer thou hearest, mindful of the schemes 
Of thine own youth ; — the hopes, the fever-dreams 
Of Fame and Glory which seemed hovering then, 
(Nor only seemscT) upon thy magic pen ; 



182 THE WINTERS WALK. 

And measuring not how much beneath thine own 

Is the sick mind thus pining to be known, 

But only what a wealth of hope lies hushed 

As in a grave, — when men like these are crushed ! 



And by that light's soft radiance I review 

Thy unpretending kindness, calm and true, 

Not to me only, — but in bitterest hours 

To one whom Heaven endowed with varied powers ; 

To one who died, e'er yet my childish heart 

Knew what Fame meant, or Slander's fabled dart ! 

Then was the laurel green upon his brow, 

And they could flatter then, who judge him now ; 

Who, when the fickle breath of fortune changed, 

With equal falsehood held their love estranged ; 

Nay, like mean wolves, from whelp-hood vainly nurst, 

Tore at the easy hand that fed them first. 

Not so didst thou the ties of friendship break — 

Not so didst thou the saddened man forsake ; 

And when at length he laid his dying head 

On the hard rest of his neglected bed, 

He found, — (tho' few or none around him came 

Whom he had toiled for in his hour of Fame ; — 



THE WINTER'S WALK. }g3 

Though by his Prince, unroyally forgot, 
And left to struggle with his altered lot ; — ) 
By sorrow weakened, — by disease unnerved, — 
Faithful at least the friend he had not served : 
For the same voice essayed that hour to cheer, 
Which now sounds welcome to his grandchild's ear ; 
And the same hand, to aid that Life's decline, 
Whose gentle clasp so late was linked in mine ! 



THE REPRIEVE. 



[Suggested by a beautiful little Picture painted by J. R. Herbert, Esq., repre- 
senting, in the foreground, a Woman pleading with a Warrior, and, in the 
background, preparations for an Execution.] 



A moment since, he stood unmoved — alone, 

Courage and thought on his resolved brow ; 
But hope is quivering in the broken tone, 

Whose bitter anguish seems to shake him now : 
Her light foot woke no echo as it came, 

The rustling robe her sudden swiftness told ; 
She pleads for one who dies a death of shame ; 

She pleads — for agony and love are bold. 



" Oh ! hear me, thou, who in the sunshine's glare 
So calmly waitest till the warning bell 

Shall of the closing hour of his despair 
In gloomy notes of muffled triumph tell : 



THE REPRIEVE. 185 

Let him not die ! Avenging Heaven is just ; 

Thine, a like fate in after years may be : 
Thy forfeit head may gasping bite the dust, 

While those thou lovest, plead in vain for thee ! 
Thou smilest sternly : thou could'st well brave death ? 
Hast braved it often on the tented field ? 

So fought my hero on th' ensanguined heath, 
With desperate strength, that knew not how to yield: 

But oh! the death whose punctual hour is set, 
And waited for mid lingering thoughts of pain ; 

Where no excitement bids the heart forget, 
And skill and courage are alike in vain ; 

Who shall find strength for that? — Oh ! man, to whom 
Fate, chance, or what thou wilt, hath given this hour — 

Upon whose will depends his dreaded doom — 
Doth it not awe thee, thinking of thy power? 

In the wide battle's hot and furious rage, 
Where the mix'd banners flutter to and fro, 

Where all alike the desperate combat wage, 
One of a thousand swords may pierce him through : 

But, now, his life is in thy single hand : 
To thee the strange and startling power is given — 

And thou shalt answer for this day's command 
When ye stand face to face in God's own Heaven. 



186 THE REPRIEVE. 

Bear with me! pardon me this sudden start! 
My words are bitter, for my heart is sore ; 

And oh ! dark soldier of the iron heart, 
Fain would I learn the speech should touch thee more ! 

He hath a mother — age hath dimm'd her sight — 
But when his quick returning step comes nigh, 

She smiles, as though she saw a sudden light, 
And turns to bless him with a stifled sigh. 

When to her arms a lonely wretch I go, 
And she doth ask for him, the true and brave, 

While on her cheek faint smiles of welcome glow, 
How shall I answer ' he is in the grave!' 

He hath a little son — a mirthful boy, 
Whose coral lips with ready smiles are curl'd ; 

Wilt thou quench all the spring-time of his joy, 
And leave him orphan in a friendless world? 

Hast thou no children? — Do no visions come, 
When the low night- wind through the poplar grieves* — 

Echoes of farewell voices — sounds of home — 
For which thy busy day no leisure leaves ? 

Some one doth love thee — some one thou dost love — 
(For such the blessed lot of all on earth,) 

Some one to whom thy thoughts oft fondly rove, 
The sharer of thy sorrows and thy mirth ; 



THE REPRIEVE. 187 

Who with dim weeping eyes, and thoughts that burn, 
Sees thy proud form lead forth th' embattled host ; 

To whom i a victory' speaks of thy return — 
And ' a defeat' means only thou art lost ! 

If such there be, (and on thy helm- worn brow 
Sternness, not cruelty, doth seem to reign,) 

Think it is she, who kneels before thee now, 
Her heart which bursts with agony of pain. 

" Hark ! 'T is the warning stroke — his hour is come — 

I hear the bell slow clanging on the air — 

I hear the beating of the muffled drum — 
Thou hast a moment yet to save and spare ! 

Oh ! when returning to thy native land, 
Greeted with grateful tears and loud acclaim ; 

While gazing on thy homeward march they stand, 
And smiling children shout thy welcome name : 

How wilt thou bear the joyous village chimes, 
Whose ringing peals remind thee of to-day — 

Will not my image haunt thee at those times ? 
And my hoarse desperate voice seem yet to pray ? 

When thy long term of bloody toil is past, 
And the hush'd trumpet calls no more to arms — 

Will not his death thy tranquil brow o'ercast, 
And rob that peaceful hour of half its charms ? 



188 THE REPRIEVE. 

When thy child's mother bends thy lip to press, 
And her true hand lies clasp'd within thine own — 

Will her low voice have perfect power to bless, 
Remembering me, the widow'd and the lone ? 

When they embrace thee — when they welcome thee- 
By all my hopes of Heaven, thy brow relents ! 

Oh ! sign the paper — let his life go free — 
Give it me quick!" — 

" What ho! Raise her — the woman faints!" 



THE FAITHFUL GUARDIAN. 



[Suggested by Mr, Edwin Landseers celebrated Picture of the Marquis of 
Abercom's Children.] 



Two beautiful and rosy babes are pictured here alone, 
Two infants of a noble race, as any near the throne : — 
And, in the cradle's shadow, lies a stately-looking hound, 
His fine limbs full of strength and grace, couched humbly 

on the ground : 
Humbly upon the ground lies he : while from the young 

child's arm 
A jealous spaniel snarling peeps, whom no caress can charm; 
Though close that dimpled arm is bent, as though its clasp 

would fain 
Its spoiled companion's idle wrath to gentleness restrain ; 



190 THE FAITHFUL GUARDIAN. 

Small need of care ! The stately hound, still calm and 

couchant lies, 
With lazy kindness lifting up his wise and honest eyes ; 
Declaring by the emblem meet of his serene repose, 
How frankly generous hearts can bear the baiting of mean 

foes. 

Not so, O ! noble-natured brute, would'st thou quiescent 

rest, 
If the sound of danger roused the blood within thy valiant 

breast; 
If near these helpless little fays, — thy master's children — 

came 
The doubtful tread of stranger's feet, on whom they had no 

claim; 

Then, then, upspringing with a bound, — aroused for their 

defence, — 
Each nerve would arm with savage strength thy keen and 

eager sense, 
And the darkly gleaming eyes where now such softened 

shadows play, 
Would burn like watch-fires, lit at night, to scare the foe 

away. 



THE FAITHFUL GUARDIAN. 191 

And were trie danger real to these, by whom thy watch is 

kept, — 
E'er a rough hand should dare profane the cradle where 

they slept, 
E'er a rude step should reach the spot where now they 

smile at play, — 
Thy fangs would meet within his throat, to hold the wretch 

at bay! 

Thou would'st battle, noble creature, for these children of 

thy lord's, 
As men fight for a Royal Prince, whose crown hangs on 

their swords ; — 
Soldiers, who hear their General's cry, by treachery hemm'd 

in,— 
Freemen, who strike for home and hearth, 'gainst Tyranny's 

proud sin, — 
So would'st thou strive ! And bold were he who then could 

lay thee low, 
For still thy fierce and mighty grasp would pin the strug- 
gling foe, 
And if keen sword, or human skill, cut short thy gasping 

breath, 
Should he be thought thy conqueror? — No ! — Thy conqueror 

would be Death. 



192 the faithful guardian. 

Oh, tried and trusted ! Thou whose love ne'er changes nor 

forsakes, 
Thou proof how perfect God hath stamped the meanest 

thing he makes ; 
Thou, whom no snare entraps to serve, no art is used to 

tame, — 
(Train'd, like ourselves, thy path to know, by words of 

love and blame;) 
Friend! who beside the cottage door, or in the rich man's 

hall, 
With steadfast faith still answerest the one familiar call, — 
Well by poor hearth and lordly home thy couchant form 

may rest, 
And Prince and Peasant trust thee still, to guard what they 

love best ! 



THE FORSAKEN. 



[Suggested by an Italian picture, of a dying girl, to whom the lute is 
being played.] 



I. 

It is the music of her native land, — 

The airs she used to love in happier days ; 

The lute is struck by some young gentle hand, 
To soothe her spirit with remember 'd lays. 

II. 

But her sad heart is wandering from the notes, 
Her ear is fill'd with an imagined strain ; 

Vainly the soften'd music round her floats, 
The echo it awakes is all of pain ! 

III. 

The echo it awakes, is of a voice 

Which never more her weary heart shall cheer ; 
Fain would she banish it, but hath no choice, 

Its vanish' d sound still haunts her shrinking ear,- 



194 THE FORSAKEN. 

IV. 

Still haunts her with its tones of joy and love, 

Its memories of bitterness and wrong, 
Bidding her thoughts thro' various changes rove, — 

Welcomes, farewells, and snatches of wild song. 

V. 

Why bring her music ? She had half forgot 
How left, how lonely, how oppress'd she was ; 

Why, by these strains, recal her former lot, 
The depth of all her suffering, and its cause ? 

VI. 

Know ye not what a spell there is in sound ? 

Know ye not that the melody of words 
Is nothing to the power that wanders round, 

Giving vague language to harmonious chords ? 

VII. 

Oh ! keep ye silence ! He hath sung to her, 

And from that hour — (faint twilight, sweet and dim, 

When the low breeze scarce made the branches stir) — 
Music hath been a memory of him ! 



THE FORSAKEN. jg^ 

VIII. 

Chords which the wandering fingers scarcely touch 
When they would seek for some forgotten song, — 

Stray notes which have no certain meaning, such 
As careless hands unthinkingly prolong,— 

IX. 

Come unto her, fraught with a vivid dream 

Of love, in all its wild and passionate strength, — 

Of sunsets, glittering on the purple stream, — 
Of shadows, deepening into twilight length, — 

X. 

Of gentle sounds, when the warm world lay hush'd 
Beneath the soft breath of the evening air, — 

Of hopes and fears, and expectations crush' d, 
By one long certainty of blank despair ! 

XI. 
Bear to the sick man's couch the fiery cup, 

Pledged by wild feasters in their riotous hours, 
And bid his parch'd lips drink the poison up, 
As tho' its foam held cool refreshing powers, — 

k2 



X96 THE FORSAKEN. 

XII. 

Lift some poor wounded wretch, whose writhing pain 

Finds soothing only in an utter rest, 
Forth in some rude-made litter, to regain 

Strength for his limbs and vigour for his breast ; — 

XIII. 

But soothe ye not that proud forsaken heart 

With strains whose sweetness maddens as they fall ; 

Untroubled let her feverish soul depart — 

Not long shall memory's power its might enthral ; 

XIV. 

Not long, — tho' balmy be the summer's breath ! 

In the deep stillness of its golden light, 
A shadowy spirit sits, whose name is Death, 

And turns, what was all beauty, into blight ; 

XV. 

And she, before whose sad and dreaming eye 
Visions of by-gone days are sweeping on, 

In her unfaded youth shall drooping die, 
Shut from the glow of that Italian sun : 



THE FORSAKEN. 197 

XVI. 

Ihen let the organ's solemn notes prolong 
Their glory round the silence of her grave, 

Then let the choral voices swell in song 
And echo thro 5 the chancel and the nave ; 

XVII. 

For then her heart shall ache not at the sound, 
Then the faint fever of her life shall cease ; 

Silence, unbroken, calm, shall reign around, 
And the long restless shall be laid at peace. 



THE VISIONARY PORTRAIT. 



I: 

As by his lonely hearth he sate, 
The shadow of a welcome dream 

Pass'd o'er his heart, — disconsolate 
His home did seem ; 

Comfort in vain was spread around, 

For something still was wanting found. 

II. 

Therefore he thought of one who might 
For ever in his presence stay ; 

Whose dream should be of him by night, 
Whose smile should be for him by day; 

And the sweet vision, vague and far, 

Rose on his fancy like a star. 



THE VISIONARY PORTRAIT. 199 

III. 

" Let her be young, yet not a child, 
Whose light and inexperienced mirth 

Is all too winged and too wild 
For sober earth, — 

Too rainbow-like such mirth appears, 

And fades away in misty tears. 

IV. 

" Let youth's fresh rose still gently bloom 

Upon her smooth and downy cheek, 
Yet let a shadow, not of gloom, 

But soft and meek, 
Tell that some sorrow she hath known, 
Tho* not a sorrow of her own. 

V. 

" And let her eyes be of the grey, 

The soft grey of the brooding dove, 
Full of the sweet and tender ray 

Of modest love ; 
For fonder shows that dreamy hue 
Than lustrous black or heavenly blue. 



200 TH E VISIONARY PORTRAIT. 

VI. 

" Let her be full of quiet grace, 
No sparkling wit with sudden glow 

Bright'ning her purely chisell'd face 
And placid brow ; 

Not radiant to the stranger's eye, — 

A creature easily pass'd by; 

VII. 
" But who, once seen, with untold power 

For ever haunts the yearning heart, 
Baised from the crowd that self-same hour 

To dwell apart, 
All sainted and enshrined to be 
The idol of our memory ! 

VIII. 

" And oh ! let Mary be her name — 
It hath a sweet and gentle sound 

At which no glories dear to fame 
Come crowding round, 

But which the dreaming heart beguiles 

With holy thoughts and household smiles. 



THE VISIONARY PORTRAIT. 201 

IX. 

ie With peaceful meetings, welcomes kind, 
And love, the same in joy and tears, 

And gushing intercourse of mind 
Thro' faithful years ; 

Oh ! dream of something half divine, 

Be real — be mortal — and be mine ! " 



k 3 



THE PICTUEE OF SAPPHO. 



I. 

Thou ! whose impassion'd face 

The Painter loves to trace, 
Theme of the Sculptor's art and Poet's story — 

How many a wand'ring thought 

Thy loveliness hath brought, 
Warming the heart with its imagined glory ! 



II. 

Yet, was it History's truth, 

That tale of wasted youth, 
Of endless grief, and Love forsaken pining? 

What wert thou, thou whose woe 

The old traditions show 
With Fame's cold light around thee vainly shining ? 



THE PICTURE OF SAPPHO. 203 

III. 

Didst thou indeed sit there 

In languid lone despair — 
Thy harp neglected by thee idly lying — 

Thy soft and earnest gaze 

Watching the lingering rays 
In the far west, where summer-day was dying — 

IV. 

While with low rustling wings, 

Among the quivering strings 
The murmuring breeze faint melody was making, 

As though it wooed thy hand 

To strike with new command, 
Or mourn'd with thee because thy heart was breaking? 

V. 

Didst thou, as day by day 

Roll'd heavily away, 
And left thee anxious, nerveless, and dejected, 

Wandering thro' bowers beloved — 

Roving where lie had roved — 
Yearn for his presence, as for one expected ? 



204 THE PICTURE OF SAPPHO. 

VI. 

Didst thou, with fond wild eyes 

Fix'd on the stany skies, 
Wait feverishly for each new day to waken — 

Trusting some glorious morn 

Might witness his return, 
Unwilling to believe thyself forsaken? 

VII. 

And when conviction came, 

Chilling that heart of flame, 
Didst thou, saddest of earth's grieving daughters ! 

From the Leucadian steep 

Dash, with a desperate leap, 
And hide thyself within the whelming waters ? 

VIII. 

Yea, in their hollow breast 

Thy heart at length found rest ! 
The ever-moving waves above thee closing — 

The winds, whose ruffling sigh 

Swept the blue waters by, 
Disturb'd thee not ! — thou wert in peace reposing ! 



THE PICTURE OF SAPPHO, 205 

IX. 

Such is the tale they tell ! 

Vain was thy beauty's spell- 
Vain all the praise thy song could still inspire — 

Though many a happy band 

Rung with less skilful hand 
The borrowed love-notes of thy echoing lyre. 

X. 

Fame, to thy breaking heart 

No comfort could impart, 
In vain thy brow the laurel wreath was wearing; 

One grief and one alone 

Could bow thy bright head down — 
Thou wert a woman, and wert left despairing ! 



THE SENSE OF BEAUTY, 



Spirit ! who over this our mortal Earth, 

Where nought hath birth 

Which imperfection doth not some way dim, 

Since Earth offended Him — 

Thou who unseen, from out thy radiant wings 

Dost shower down light o'er mean and common things ; 

And, wandering to and fro, 

Through the condemn'd and sinful world dost go, 

Haunting that wilderness, the human heart, 

With gleams of glory that too soon depart, 

Gilding both weed and flower ; — 

What is thy birth divine ? and whence thy mighty power ? 



The Sculptor owns thee ! On his high pale brow 
Bewild'ring images are pressing now ; 
Groups whose immortal grace 
His chisel ne'er shall trace, 



THE SENSE OF BEAUTY. 207 

Though in his mind the fresh creation glows ; 

High forms of godlike strength, 

Or limbs whose languid length 

The marble fixes in a sweet repose ! 

At thy command, 

His true and patient hand 

Moulds the dull clay to Beauty's richest line. 

Or with more tedious skill, 

Obedient to thy will, 

By touches imperceptible and fine, 

Works slowly day by day 

The rough-hewn block away, 

Till the soft shadow of the bust's pale smile 

Wakes into statue-life and pays the assiduous toil ! 



Thee, the young Painter knows,- — whose fervent eyes, 

O'er the blank waste of canvas fondly bending, 

See fast within its magic circle rise 

Some pictured scene, with colours softly blending, — 

Green bowers and leafy glades, 

The old Arcadian shades, 

Where thwarting glimpses of the sun are thrown, 

And dancing nymphs and shepherds one by one 



208 THE SENSE OF BEAUTY. 

Appear to bless his sight 

In Fancy's glowing light, 

Peopling that spot of green Earth's flowery breast 

With every attitude of joy and rest. 

Lo ! at his pencil's touch steals faintly forth 
(Like an uprising star in the cold north) 
Some face which soon shall glow with beauty's fire : 
Dim seems the sketch to those who stand around, 
Dim and uncertain as an echoed sound, 
But oh! how bright to him, whose hand thou dost inspire! 

Thee, also, doth the dreaming Poet hail, 
Fond comforter of many a dreary day — 
When through the clouds his Fancy's car can sail 
To worlds of radiance far, how far, away ! 
At thy clear touch (as at the burst of light 
Which Morning shoots along the purple hills, 
Chasing the shadows of the vanish'd night, 
And silvering all the darkly gushing rills, 
Giving each waking blossom, gemm'd with dew, 
Its bright and proper hue ;) — 
He suddenly beholds the chequered face 
Of this old world in its young Eden grace ! 



, 



THE SENSE OF BEAUTY. 209 

Disease, and want, and sin, and pain, are not — 

Nor homely and familiar things : — man's lot 

Is like his aspirations — bright and high ; 

And even the haunting thought that man must die, 

His dream so changes from its fearful strife, 

Death seems but fainting into purer life ! 



Nor only these thy presence woo, 
The less inspired own thee too ! 
Thou hast thy tranquil source 
In the deep well-springs of the human heart, 
And gushest with sweet force 
When most imprison'd ; causing tears to start 
In the worn citizen's o'erwearied eye, 
As, with a sigh, 

At the bright close of some rare holiday, 
He sees the branches wave, the waters play — 
And hears the clock's far distant mellow chime 
Warn him a busier world reclaims his time ! 



Thee, Childhood's heart confesses, — when he sees 
The heavy rose-bud crimson in the breeze, 



210 THE SENSE OF BEAUTY. 

When the red coral wins his eager gaze, 

Or the warm sunbeam dazzles with its rays. 

Thee, through his varied hours of rapid joy, 

The eager Boy, — 

Who wild across the grassy meadow springs, 

And still with sparkling eyes 

Pursues the uncertain prize, 

Lured by the velvet glory of its wings ! 

And so from youth to age — yea, till the end — 
An unforsaking, unforgetting friend, 
Thou hoverest round us ! And when all is o'er, 
And Earth's most loved illusions please no more, 
Thou stealest gently to the couch of Death ; 
There, while the lagging breath 
Comes faint and fitfully, to usher nigh 
Consoling visions from thy native sky, 
Making it sweet to die ! 

The sick man's ears are faint — his eyes are dim — 
But his heart listens to the Heavenward hymn, 
And his soul sees — in lieu of that sad band, 
Who come with mournful tread 
To kneel about his bed, — 

God's white-robed angels, who around him stand, 
And waive his Spirit to "the Better Land!" 



THE SENSE OF BEAUTY. 211 

So, living, — dying, — still our hearts pursue 
That loveliness which never met our view; 
Still to the last the ruling thought will reign, 
Nor deem one feeling given — was giv'n in vain ! 
For it may be, our banish'd souls recal 
In this, their earthly thrall, 
(With the sick dreams of exiles,) that far world 
Whence angels once were hurl'd ; 
Or it may be, a faint and trembling sense, 
Vague, as permitted by Omnipotence, 
Foreshows the immortal radiance round us shed, 
When the Imperfect shall be perfected ! 
Like the chain'd eagle in his fetter'd might, 
Straining upon the Heavens his wistful sight, 
Who toward the upward glory fondly springs 
With all the vain strength of his shivering wings, — 
So chain'd to earth, and baffled — yet so fond 
Of the pure sky which lies so far beyond, 
We make the attempt to soar in many a thought 
Of Beauty born, and into Beauty wrought; 
Dimly we struggle onwards : — who shall say 
Which glimmering light leads nearest to the Day ? 



THE MOTHER'S HEART. 



I. 

When first thou earnest, gentle, shy, and fond, 
My eldest-born, first hope, and dearest treasure, 

My heart received thee with a joy beyond 
All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure ; 

Nor thought that any love again might be 

So deep and strong as that I felt for thee. 

II. 

Faithful and true, with sense beyond thy years, 
And natural piety that lean'd to Heaven ; 

"Wrung by a harsh word suddenly to tears, 
Yet patient of rebuke when justly given — 

Obedient — easy to be reconciled — 

And meekly-cheerful — such wert thou, my child ! 



THE MOTHER 1 S HEART. 213 



III. 



Not willing to be left ; still by my side 

Haunting my walks, while summer -day was dying ;- 
Nor leaving in thy turn; but pleased to glide 

Thro' the dark room where I was sadly lying, 
Or by the couch of pain, a sitter meek, 
Watch the dim eye, and kiss the feverish cheek. 

IV. 

boy ! of such as thou are oftenest made 
Earth's fragile idols ; like a tender flower, 

No strength in all thy freshness, — prone to fade, — 
And bending weakly to the thunder -shower, — 

Still, round the loved, thy heart found force to bind. 

And clung, like woodbine shaken in the wind ! 



Then thou, my merry love; — bold in thy glee, 
Under the bough, or by the firelight dancing, 

With thy sweet temper, and thy spirit free, 

Didst come, as restless as a bird's wing glancing, 

Full of a wild and irrepressible mirth, 

Like a young sunbeam to the gladden'd earth! 



214 THE MOTHER'S HEART. 

VI. 

Thine was the shout! the song! the burst of joy! 

Which sweet from childhood's rosy lip resoundeth ; 
Thine was the eager spirit nought could cloy, 

And the glad heart from which all grief reboundeth; 
And many a mirthful jest and mock reply, 
Lurk'd in the laughter of thy dark-blue eye ! 

VII. 

And thine was many an art to win and bless, 

The cold and stern to joy and fondness warming ; 

The coaling smile; — the frequent soft caress; — 
The earnest tearful prayer all wrath disarming ! 

Again my heart a new affection found, 

But thought that love with thee had reach'd its bound. 

VIII. 

At length thou earnest; thou, the last and least; 

Nick-named " The Emperor" by thy laughing brothers, 
Because a haughty spirit swell'd thy breast, 

And thou didst seek to rule and sway the others ; 
Mingling with every playful infant wile 
A mimic majesty that made us smile : — 



THE MOTHERS HEART. 215 

IX. 

And oh! most like a regal child wert thou! 

An eye of resolute and successful scheming! 
Fair shoulders — curling lip — and dauntless brow — 

Fit for the world's strife, not for Poet's dreaming : 
And proud the lifting of thy stately head, 
And the firm bearing of thy conscious tread. 

X. 

Different from both! Yet each succeeding claim, 
I, that all other love had been forswearing, 

Forthwith admitted, equal and the same; 
Nor injured either, by this love's comparing, 

Nor stole a fraction for the newer call — 

But in the Mother's Heart, found room for all! 



MAY-DAY, 1837. 



I. 

May -day is come ! — While yet the unwilling Spring 

Checks with capricious frown the opening year, 
Onward, where bleak winds have been whispering, 

The punctual Hours their ancient playmate bear ; 
But those who long have look'd for thee, stand by, 
Like men who welcome back a friend bereaved, 
And cannot smile, because his sadden'd eye 
Doth mutely tell them how his soul is grieved. 
Even thus we greet thine alter'd face to-day, 
Thou friend in mourning garb! — chill, melancholy 
May! 



MAY-DAY, 1837. 217 

II. 

To thee the first and readiest smiles of Earth, 

Lovely with life renew'd, were always given, — 
To thee belong'd the sunshine and the mirth 

Which bathed all Nature with a glow from Heaven,— 
To thee the joy of Childhood's earnest heart, 

His shouting song, and light elastic tread, 
His brows high arch'd, and laughing lips apart, 

Bright as the wreath that bound his rosy head : — 
Thou wert of Innocence the holiday, 
Thou garlanded and glad ! — thou ever-blooming May ! 

III. 

Yet will I not reproach thee for thy change : 

Closed be the flower, and leafless be the tree ! 
Smile not as thou wert wont ; but sad, and strange, 

And joyless, let thy tardy coming be ! 
So shall I miss those infant voices less, 

Calling each other through the garden bowers, 
Meeting and parting in wild happiness, 

Leading a light dance thro' the sunny hours ; 
Those little mirthful hearts, who, far away, 
Breathe, amid cloud-capp'd hills, a yet more wintry 
May! l 



218 MAY-DAY, 1837. 

IV. 

Ah, boys ! your play-ground is a desert spot, 

Revisited alone, and bathed with tears ; 
And where ye pass your May-day, knoweth not 

The mother who hath watch'd your dawning years. 
Mine is no more the joy to see ye come, 

And deem each step hath some peculiar grace ! 
Yours is no more the mother's welcome home, 

Smiling at each beloved, familiar face ! 
And I am thankful that this dreary May 
Recals not, save by name, that brighter, happier day ! 

V. 

I should have felt more mock'd, if there had been 

More peace and sunshine round me, — had the grove, 
Clad in transparent leaves of tender green, 

Been full of murm'ring sounds of Nature's love ; 
I should have wept more bitterly beneath 

The frail laburnum trees, so faint and fair, — 
I should have sicken'd at the lilac's breath, 

Thrown by the warm sun on the silent air ; 
But now, with stern regret I wend my way — 
I know thee not, — thou cold, and unfamiliar May ! 



THE FEVER-DREAM. 



It was a fever-dream ; I lay 
Awake, as in the broad bright day, 
But faint and worn I drew my breath 
Like those who wait for coming death ; 
And my hand lay helpless on my pillow 
Weak as a reed or bending willow ; 
And the night-lamp, with its shadowy veil, 
And its light so sickly, faint, and pale, 
Gleamed mournfully on objects round ; 
And the clock's stroke was the only sound ; 
Measuring the hours of silent time 
With a heavy and unwelcome chime, 
As still monotouously true 
To its pulse-like beat, the minutes flew. 

I was alone, but not asleep ; 
Too weary, and too weak to weep, 

l 2 



220 



THE FEVER-DREAM. 



My eyes had closed in sadness there ; 
And they who watched o'er rny despair 
Had placed that dim light in the room, 
And deepened the surrounding gloom, 
By curtaining out the tew sad rays 
Which made things present to my gaze ; 
And all because they vainly thought 
At last the night its rest had brought, — 
Alas! rest came no more to me 
So heavy was my misery ! 



They left me, and my heart was filled 
With wandering dreams, whose fancies thrilled 
Painfully through my feeble brain, 
Till I almost wished them back again. 
Yet wherefore should I bid them stay? 
They could not chase those dreams away, 
But onlv watch me as I lav. 



They left me, and the midnight stroke 
From the old clock the silence broke ; 



THE FEVER-DREAM. 221 



And with a wild repining sigh 
I wished it were my time to die ! 
And then^, with spirit all dismayed, 
For that wild wish, forgiveness prayed, 
Humbling myself to God's high power 
To bear His will, and wait His hour. 



And while I darkly rested there, 
The breath of a young child's floating hair, 
Perfumed, and warm, and glistening bright, 
Swept past me in the shrouding night ; — 
And the footsteps of children, light and quick, 
(While my heart beat loud, and my breath came thick) 
Went to and fro on the silent floor ; — 
And the lock was turned in the fastened door, 
As a child may turn it, who tiptoe stands 
With his fair round arms and his dimpled hands, 
Putting out all their strength in vain 
Admittance by Iris own means to gain : 
Till his sweet impatient voice is heard 
Like the chirp of a young imprisoned bird, 
Seeking an entrance still to win 
By fond petitions to those within. 



222 THE FEVER-DREAM. 

A child's soft shadowy hair, bright smiles, 
His merry laugh, and coaxing wiles, 
These are sweet things, — most precious things. 
But in spite of my brain's wild wanderings, 
I knew that they dwelt in my fancy only, 
And that I was sad, and left, and lonely ; 
And the fear of a dreadful madness came 
And withered my soul like a parching flame ; 
And I felt the strong delirium growing, 
And the thread of my feeble senses going, 
And I heard with a horror all untold 
Which turned my hot blood icy-cold, 
Those light steps draw more near my bed ; 
And by visions I was visited, 
Of the gentle eyes which I might not see, 
And the faces that were so far from me ! 



And blest, oh ! blest was the morning beam 
Which woke me up from my fever-dream ! 



TO THE LADY H. 0. 

[Isle of Wight, September, 1838.] 



I. 

Come o'er the green hills to the sunny sea ! 

The boundless sea that washeth many lands, 
Where shells unknown to England, fair and free, 

Lie brightly scatter'd on the gleaming sands. 
There, 'midst the hush of slumbering ocean's roar, 

We'll sit and watch the silver-tissued waves 
Creep languidly along the basking shore, 

And kiss thy gentle feet, like Eastern slaves. 

II. 

And we will take some volume of our choice, 

Full of a quiet poetry of thought, 
And thou shalt read me, with thy plaintive voice, 

Lines which some gifted mind hath sweetly wrought ; 



224 TO THE LADY H. O. 

And I will listen, gazing on thy face, 

(Pale as some cameo on the Italian shell !) 

Or looking ont across the far blue space, 

Where glancing sails to gentle breezes swell. 

III. 

Come forth ! The sun hath flung on Thetis' breast 

The glittering tresses of his golden hair ; 
All things are heavy with a noonday rest, 

And floating sea-birds leave the stirless air. 
Against the sky, in outlines clear and rude, 

The cleft rocks stand, while sunbeams slant between ; 
And lulling winds are murmuring thro' the wood, 

Which skirts the bright bay with its fringe of green. 

IV. 

Come forth ! All motion is so gentle now, 

It seems thy step alone should walk the earth, — 
Thy voice alone, the " ever soft and low," 

Wake the far -haunting echoes into birth. 
Too wild would be Love's passionate store of hope, 

Unmeet the influence of his changeful power, — 
Ours be companionship, whose gentle scope 

Hath charm enough for such a tranquil hour. 



TO THE LADY H. O. 225 

V. 

And slowly, idly wandering, we will roam, 

Where the high cliffs shall give us ample shade ; 
And watch the glassy waves, whose wrathful foam 

Hath power to make the seaman's heart afraid. 
Seek thou no veil to shroud thy soft brown hair, — 

"Wrap thou no mantle round thy graceful form ; 
The cloudless sky smiles forth as still and fair 

As tho' earth ne'er could know another storm. 

VI. 

Come ! Let not listless sadness make delay, — 

Beneath Heaven's light that sadness will depart ; 
And as we wander on our shoreward way, 

A strange, sweet peace shall enter in thine heart. 
We will not weep, nor talk of vanish'd years, 

When, link by link, Hope's glittering chain was riven : 
Those who are dead, shall claim from love no tears, — 

Those who have injured us, shall be forgiven. 

VII. 

Few have my summers been, and fewer thine ; — 

Youth blighted is the weary lot of both : 
To both, all lonely shows our life's decline, 

Both with old friends and ties have waxed wroth. 



226 T0 THE LADY H. O. 

But yet we will not weep ! The breathless calm 
Which lulls the golden earthy and wide blue sea, 

Shall pour into our souls mysterious balm, 
And fill us with its own tranquillity. 

VIII. 

We will not mar the scene — we will not look 

To the veil'd future, or the shadowy past ; 
Seal'd up shall be sad Memory's open book, 

And childhood's idleness return at last ! 
Joy, with his restless, ever-fluttering wings, 

And Hope, his gentle brother, — all shall cease : 
Like weary hinds that seek the desert springs, 

Our one sole feeling shall be peace — deep peace ! 



THE FALLEN LEAVES. 



We stand among the fallen leaves, 

Young children at our play, 
And laugh to see the yellow things 

Go rustling on their way : 
Right merrily we hunt them down, 

The autumn winds and we, 
Nor pause to gaze where snow-drifts lie, 

Or sunbeams gild the tree : 
With dancing feet we leap along 

Where wither'd boughs are strown ; 
Nor past nor future checks our song — 

The present is our own. 



228 THE FALLEN LEAVES. 

II. 

We stand among the fallen leaves 

In youth's enchanted spring — 
When Hope (who wearies at the last) 

First spreads her eagle wing. 
We tread with steps of conscious strength 

Beneath the leafless trees, 
And the colour kindles on our cheek 

As blows the winter breeze ; 
While, gazing towards the cold grey sky, 

Clouded with snow and rain, 
We wish the old year all past by, 

And the young spring come again. 

III. 

We stand among the fallen leaves 

In manhood's haughty prime — 
When first our pausing hearts begin 

To love " the olden time ; " 
And, as we gaze, we sigh to think 

How many a year hath pass'd 
Since 'neath those cold and faded trees 

Our footsteps wander'd last ; 



THE FALLEN LEAVES. 229 

And old companions — now perchance 

Estranged, forgot, or dead — 
Come ronnd us, as those autumn leaves 

Are crush'd beneath our tread. 



IV. 

We stand among the fallen leaves 

In our own autumn day — 
And, tott'ring on with feeble steps, 

Pursue our cheerless way. 
We look not back — too long ago 

Hath all we loved been lost ; 
Nor forward — for we may not live 

To see our new hope cross'd : 
But on we go — the sun's faint beam 

A feeble warmth imparts — 
Childhood without its joy returns — 

The present fills our hearts ! 



THE AUTUMN WIND. 



I. 

Hush, moaning autumn wind ! be still, be still ! 

Thy grieving voice forbiddeth hearts to rest ; 
We hear thee sweeping down the lonely hill, 

And mournful thoughts crowd o'er the human breast. 
Why wilt thou haunt us, with thy voice unkind, 
Sadd'ning the earth ? Hush, moaning autumn wind ! 

II. 

Toss not the branching trees so wildly high, 
Filling the forest with thy dreary sound : 

Without thy aid the hues of summer die, 

And the sear leaves fall scatter'd to the ground. 

Thou dost but hasten, needlessly unkind, 

The winter's task, thou moaning autumn wind ! 



THE AUTUMN WIND. 231 

III. 

Sweep not thro' Ocean's caves with hollow roar, 
Driving our fair ships to some rock-bound strand ! 

While the vex'd sea foams wrathful to the shore, 
The seaman's wife looks shuddering from the land, 

And widow'd hearts for many a year shall find 

Death in thy voice, thou moaning autumn wind ! 

IV. 

Round our calm dwellings, when our hearths are gay, 

Roam not, oh howling spirit of Despair ! 
As tho' thou wert a creature seeking prey, 

And where the land look'd richest, found it there. 
We have enough of memories unkind 
Without thy voice, thou moaning autumn wind ! 

V. 

Thee the sad mourner lists, and turns to weep, 

In the blank silence of her lonely home ; 
The sick man hears, and starts from broken sleep, 

And the night- wanderer sighs — compell'd to roam ; 
While the poor shiver, for their huts unkind 
Bar thee not out, thou searching autumn wind ! 



232 THE AUTUMN WIND. 

VI. 

Back to the barren hiU and lonely glen ! 

Here let the wandering of thy echoes cease ; 
Sadly thou soundest to the hearts of men, — 

Hush thy wild voice, and let the earth have peace ; 
Or, if no chain thy restless will can bind, 
Sweep thro' the desert, moaning autumn wind ! 



THE BLIND MAN'S BRIDE, 



I. 

When firsts beloved, in vanish'd hours 

The blind man sought thy love to gain, 
They said thy cheek was bright as flowers 

New freshen'd by the summer rain : 
They said thy movements, swift yet soft, 

Were such as make the winged dove 
Seem, as it gently soars aloft, 

The image of repose and love. 

II. 

They told me, too, an eager crowd 
Of wooers praised thy beauty rare, 

But that thy heart was all too proud 
A common love to meet or share. 



234 THE BLIND MAN'S BRIDE. 

Ah ! thine was neither pride nor scorn, 
But in thy coy and virgin breast 

Dwelt preference, not of passion born, 
The love that hath a holier rest ! 

III. 

Days came and went ; — thy step I heard 

Pause frequent, as it pass'd me by : — 
Days came and went ; — thy heart was stirr'd, 

And answer 'd to my stifled sigh ! 
And thou didst make a humble choice, 

Content to be the blind man's bride, 
Who loved thee for thy gentle voice, 

And own'd no joy on earth beside. 

IV. 

And well by that sweet voice I knew 

(Without the happiness of sight) 
Thy years, as yet, were glad and few, — 

Thy smile, most innocently bright : 
I knew how full of love's own grace 

The beauty of thy form must be ; 
And fancy idolized the face 

Whose loveliness I mgiht not see ! 



THE BLIND MANS BRIDE. 235 

V. 

Oh ! happy were those days, beloved ! 

I almost ceased for light to pine 
When thro' the summer vales we roved, 

Thy fond hand gently link'd in mine. 
Thy soft " Good night " still sweetly cheer'd 

The unbroken darkness of my doom ; 
And thy " Good morrow, love," endear'd 

Each sunrise that return'd in gloom ! 

VI. 

At length, as years roll'd swiftly on, 

They spoke to me of Time's decay — 
Of roses from thy smooth cheek gone, 

And ebon ringlets turn'd to grey. 
Ah ! then I bless'd the sightless eyes 

Which could not feel the deepening shade, 
Nor watch beneath succeeding skies 

Thy withering beauty faintly fade. 

VII. 

I saw no paleness on thy cheek, 

No lines upon thy forehead smooth, — 

But still the blind man heard thee speak 
In accents made to bless and soothe : 



236 THE BLIND MAN'S BRIDE. 

Still he could feel thy guiding hand 

As thro' the woodlands wild we ranged, — 

Still in the summer light could stand, 

And know thy heart and voice unchanged. 

VIII. 

And still, beloved, till life grows cold, 

We '11 wander 'neath a genial sky, 
And only know that we are old 

By counting happy years gone by : 
For thou to me art still as fair 

As when those happy years began, — 
When first thou cam'st to soothe and share 

The sorrows of a sightless man ! 

IX. 

Old Time, who changes all below, 

To wean men gently for the grave, 
Hath brought us no increase of woe, 

And leaves us all he ever gave : 
For I am still a helpless thing, 

Whose darken'd world is cheer'd by thee— 
And thou art she whose beauty's spring 

The blind man vainly yearn'd to see ! 



THE WIDOW TO HER SON'S BETROTHED. 



I. 

Ah, cease to plead with that sweet cheerful voice, 

Nor bid me struggle with, a weight of woe, 
Lest from the very tone that says " rejoice " 

A double bitterness of grief should grow; 
Those words from thee convey no gladdening thought, 

No sound of comfort lingers in their tone, 
But by their means a haunting shade is brought 

Of love and happiness for ever gone ! 

II. 

My son ! — alas, hast thou forgotten Mm, 
That thou art full of hopeful plans again ? 

His heart is cold — his joyous eyes are dim, — ■ 
For him the future is a word in vain ! 



238 THE WIDOW TO HER SON'S BETROTHED. 

He never more the welcome hours may share, 

Nor bid Love's sunshine cheer our lonely home, — 

How hast thou conquer'd all the long despair 
Born of that sentence — He is in the tomb ? 

III. 

How can thy hand with cheerful fondness press 

The hands of friends who still on earth may stay — 
Remembering his most passionate caress 

When the long parting summon'd him away ? 
How can'st thou keep from bitter weeping, while 

Strange voices tell thee thou art brightly fair — 
Remembering how he loved thy playful smile, 

Kiss'd thy smooth cheek, and praised thy burnish'd hair? 

IV. 

How can'st thou laugh ? How can'st thou warble songs ? 

How can'st thou lightly tread the meadow-fields, 
Praising the freshness which to spring belongs, 

And the sweet incense which the hedge-flower yields ? 
Does not the many-blossom'd spring recal 

Our pleasant walks through cowslip-spangled meads, — 
The violet-scented lanes — the warm south-wall, 

Where early flow'rets rear'd their welcome heads 



THE WIDOW TO HER SONS BETROTHED. 239 

y. 

Does not remembrance darken on thy brow 

When the wild rose a richer fragrance flings — 
When the caressing breezes lift the bough, 

And the sweet thrush more passionately sings ; — 
Dost thou not, then, lament for him whose form 

Was ever near thee, full of earnest grace ? 
Does not the sudden darkness of the storm 

Seem luridly to fall on Nature's face ? 

VI. 

It does to me! The murmuring summer breeze, 

Which thou dost turn thy glowing cheek to meet, 
For me sweeps desolately through the trees, 

And moans a dying requiem at my feet ! 
The glistening river which in beauty glides, 

Sparkling and blue with morn's triumphant light, 
All lonely flows, or in its bosom hides 

A broken image lost to human sight! 

VII. 

But thou! — Ah! turn thee not in grief away; 

I do not wish thy soul as sadly wrung — 
I know the freedom of thy spirit's play, 

I know thy bounding heart is fresh and young : 



240 THE WIDOW TO HER SONS BETROTHED. 

I know corroding Time will slowly break 

The links which bound most fondly and most fast, 

And Hope will be Youth's comforter, and make 
The long bright Future overweigh the Past. 

VIII. 
Only, when full of tears I raise mine eyes 

And meet thine ever full of smiling light, 
I feel as though thy vanish'd sympathies 

Were buried in his grave, where all is night ; 
And when beside our lonely hearth I sit, 

And thy light laugh comes echoing to my ear, 
I wonder how the waste of mirth and wit 

Hath still the power thy widow'd heart to cheer ! 

IX. 

Bear with me yet! Mine is a harsh complaint ! 

And thy youth's innocent lightheartedness 
Should rather soothe me when my spirits faint 

Than seem to mock my age's lone distress. 
But oh ! the tide of grief is swelling high, 

And if so soon forgetfulness must be — 
If, for the dead, thou hast no further sigh, 

Weep for his Mother ! — Weep, young Bride, for me ! 



THE TRYST. 



L 

I went, alone, to the old familiar place 

Where we often met, — 
When the twilight soften'd thy bright and radiant face 

And the sun had set. 
All things around seem'd whispering of the past, 

With thine image blent — 
Even the changeful spray which the torrent cast 

As it downward went ! 
I stood and gazed with a sad and heavy eye 

On the waterfall — 
And with a shouting voice of agony 

On thy name did call ! 

M 



242 THE TRYST. 

II. 

With a yearning hope, from my wrung and aching heart 

I call'd on thee — 
And the lonely echoes from the rocks above 

They answer'd me ! 
Glad and familiar as a household word 

Was that cherish'd name — 
But in that grieving hour, faintly heard, 

'T was not the same ! 
Solemn and sad, with a distant knelling cry, 

On my heart it fell — 
'Twas as if the word "Welcome" had been answer'd by 

The word "Farewell!" 









THE BANNER OF THE COVENANTEES. 



[At the Mareschal College at Aberdeen, among other valuable curiosities, they 
show one of the banners formerly belonging to the Covenanters; it is of white 
silk, with the motto, " Spe Expecto," in red letters ; and underneath, the 
English inscription, " For Religion, King, and Kingdoms." The banner is 
much torn, but otherwise in good preservation.] 



I. 

Here, where the rain-drops may not fall, the sunshine doth 

not play, 
Where the unfelt and distant breeze in whispers dies away ; 
Here, where the stranger paces slow along the silent halls, 
"Why mutely art thou hanging thus against the massive 

walls? 
Thou, that hast seen blood shed for thee — that midst the 

battle -tide 
Hast faintly lit the soldier's eye with triumph ere he died ; 
Bright banner, which hath witness'd oft the struggles of the 

free, 
Emblem of proud and holy hope, is this a place for thee ? 

m 2 



244 THE BANNER OF THE COVENANTERS. 

II. 

Wake ! wave aloft, thou Banner ! let every snowy fold 
Float on our wild, unconquer'd hills, as in the days of 

old: 
Hang out, and give again to Death a glory and a charm, 
Where Heaven's pure dew may freshen thee, and Heaven's 

pure sunshine warm. 
Wake, wave aloft ! 

I hear the silk low rustling on the 

breeze, 
Which whistles through the lofty fir, and bends the birchen 

trees ; 
I hear the tread of warriors arm'd to conquer or to die ; 
Their bed or bier the heathery hill, their canopy the sky. 



III. 

What, what is life or death to them ? they only feel and 

know 
Freedom is to be struggled for, with an unworthy foe — 
Their homes — their hearths — the all for which their fathers, 

too, have fought, 
And liberty to breathe the prayers their cradled lips were 

tausrht. 






THE BANNER OF THE COVENANTERS. 245 

Oil; on they rush — like mountain streams resistlessly they 

sweep — 
On! those who live are heroes now — and martyrs those who 

sleep ! 
While still the snow-white Banner waves above the field of 

strife, 
With a proud triumph, as it were a thing of soul and life. 

IV. 

They stand — they bleed — they fall ! they make one brief 

and breathless pause, 
And gaze with fading eyes upon the standard of their 

cause ; — 
Again they brave the strife of death, again each weary limb 
Faintly obeys the warrior soul, tho' earth's best hopes grow 

dim; — 
The mountain-rills are red with blood, the pure and quiet 

sky 
Rings with the shouts of those who win, the groans of those 

who die ; 
Taken — re-taken — raised again, but soil'd with clay and 

gore, 
Heavily, on the wild free breeze, that Banner floats once 

more. 



246 THE BANNER OF THE COVENANTERS. 

V. 

I hear the wail of women now : the dreadful day is done : 
God's creatures wait to strive and slay until to-morrow's 

sun 
I hear the heavy breathing of the weary ones who sleep, 
The death-sob and the dying word, " the voice of them that 

weep ;" 
The half-choked grief of those who, while they stifle back 

their breath, 
Scarce know if what they watch be hush'd in slumber or 

in death; 
While mournfully, as if it knew and felt for their despair, 
The moon-lit Banner flaps and falls upon the midnight air. 



YI. 

Morning ! the glad and glorious light ! the waking of God's 

earth, 
Which rouses men to stain with gore the soil that gave 

them birth. 
In the still sunshine sleeps the hill, the stream, the distant 

town; 
In the still sunshine — clogg'd and stiff — the battle -flag 

hangs down. 



THE BANNER OF THE COVENANTERS. 247 



Peace is in Heaven, and Heaven's good gifts, but war is 
amongst men — 

Red blood is pouring on the hill, wild shouts are in the 
glen; 

? T is past — they sink, they bleed, they fly — that faint, en- 
feebled host, 

Eight is not might — the Banner-flag, the victory, are lost ! 

VII. 

Heaven's dew hath drunk the crimson drops which on the 

heather lay, 
The rills that were so red with gore, go sparkling on their 

way; 
The limbs that fought, the hearts that swell'd, are crum- 
bled into dust, 
The souls which strove are gone to meet the spirits of the 

just; 
But that frail silken flag, for which, and under which, they 

fought, 
(And which e'en now retains its power upon the soul of 

thought,) 
Survives — a tatter'd, senseless thing — to meet the curious 

eye, 
And wake a momentary dream of hopes and days gone by. 



248 THE BANNER OF THE COVENANTERS. 

VIII. 

A momentary dream ! oh ! not for one poor transient hour, 
Not for a brief and hurried day that flag exerts its power ; 
Full flashing on our dormant souls the firm conviction 

comes, 
That what our fathers did for theirs, we could for our 

homes. 
We, too, could brave the giant arm that seeks to chain each 

word, 
And rule what form of prayer alone shall by our God be 

heard : 
We, too, in triumph or defeat, could drain our heart's best 

veins, 
While the good old cause of Liberty for Church and State 

remains ! 



THE ROCK OF THE BETRAYED. 



I. 

It was a Highland chieftain's son 

Gazed sadly from the hill : 
And they saw him shrink from the autumn wind, 

As its blast came keen and chill. 

II. 

His stately mother saw, — and spoke 

With the heartless voice of pride ; 
" 'T is well I have a stouter son 

The border wars to ride." 

III. 

His jealous brother saw, and stood, 

Red-hair 5 d, and fierce, and tall, 
Muttering low words of fiendish hope 

To be the lord of all. 

m 3 



250 THE ROCK OF THE BETRAYED. 

IV. 

But sickly Allan heard them not, 
As he loc-k'd o'er land and lea ; 

He was thinking of the sunny climes 
That He beyond the sea. 

V. 

He was thinking of the native land 
Whose breeze he could not bear ; 

Whose wild free beauty he must leave, 
To breathe a warmer air. 

VI. 

He was dreaming of his childhood's haunts, 
And his grey-hair'd father's praise ; 

And the chance of death which hung so near 
And darken'd his young days. 

VII. 

So he turn'd, and bade them both farewell, 
With a calm and mournful smile ; 

And he spoke of dwelling far away, 
But only for a while. 



THE ROCK OF THE BETRAYED. 251 

VIII. 

And if a pang of bitter grief 

Shot wildly through his heart, 
No man heard Allan Douglas sigh, 

Nor saw the tear-drop start : 

IX. 

For he left in Scotland none who cared 

If e'er he should return, 
In castle hall, or cottage low, 

By river or by burn. 

X. 

Only upon the heather brae 

His quivering lip he press'd ; 
And clasp'd the senseless birchen tree, 

And strain'd it to his breast ; 

XI. 

Because the human heart is full 

Of love that must be given, 
However check' d, estranged, and chill'd, 

To something under Heaven. 



252 THE ROCK OF THE BETRAYED. 

XII. 

And these things had been friends to him 

Thro' a life of lonely hours — 
The blue lake, and the waving birch, 

And the low broom's scented flowers. 

* * * * 

XIII. 

Twice had the snow been on the hills, 
And twice the soft spring rain, 

When Allan Douglas bent his way 
To his native land again. 

XIV. 

More healthful glow'd his hollow cheek, 

His step was firm and free, 
And he brought a fair Italian girl 

His bonny bride to be. 

XV. 

But darkly sneer'd his brother cold, 
When he saw that maiden fair, 

" Is a foreign minion come to wed 
The Highland chieftain's heir?" 






THE ROCK OF THE BETRAYED. 9%* 

XVI. 

And darkly gloom'd the mother's brow 

As she said, "Am I so old, 
That a stranger must so soon come here 

The castle keys to hold?" 

XVII. 

Then spoke the young Italian girl 

With a sweet and modest grace, 
As she lifted up her soft black eyes 

And look'd them in the face : 

XVIII. 

i( A stranger and an orphan comes 

To Allan's native land, 
And she needs the mother's welcome smile, 

And the brother's friendly hand. 

XIX. 

' e Be thine ! oh, stately lady-— thine — 

The rule that thou dost crave, 
For Allan's love is all I earn'd, 

And all I seek to have. 



254 THE ROCK OF THE BETRAYED. 

XX. 

" And trust me, brother, the-' my words 

In foreign accents fall, 
The heart is of no country born, 

And my heart will love you all." 

XXI. 

But vain the music of her tongue 
Against the hate they bore ; 

And when a babe her love had bless'd 
They hated her the more. 

XXII. 

They hated her the more because 
That babe must be the heir, 

And his dark and lovely eyes at times 
His mother's look would wear. 

XXIII. 

But lo ! the keen cold winter came 

With many a bitter blast: 
It pierced thro' sickly Allan's frame, — 

He droop'd and died at last ! 



THE ROCK OF THE BETRAYED. 255 

XXIV. 

Oh ! mournfully at early morn 

That young wife sat and wept, — 
And mournfully, when day was done, 

To her widow'd couch she crept,— 

XXV. 

And mournfully at noon she rock'd 

The baby on her knee ; 
" There is no pity in their hearts, 

My child, for thee and me. 

XXVI. 

" There was no pity in their hearts 

For him who is at rest : 
How should they feel for his young son 

Who slumbers at my breast ?" 

XXVII. 

The red-hair'd brother saw her tears, 

And said, "Nay, cease thy moan- 
Come forth into the morning air, 

And weep no more alone !" 



256 THE ROCK OF THE BETRAYED. 

XXVIII. 

The proud step-mother chid her woe ; — 

" Even for thy infant's sake 
Go forth into the morning air, 

And sail upon the lake !" 

XXIX. 

There seem'd some feeling for her state ; 

Their words were fair and mild ; 
Yet she shudder'd as she whisper'd low, 

" God shield me and my child!" 

XXX. 

" Come !" said dead Allan's brother stern, 

" Why dost thou tremble so ? 
" Come !" — and with doubt and fear perplex'd, 

The lady rose to go. 

XXXI. 

They glided over the glassy lake, 

'Till its lulling murmur smote, 
With a death-like omen, to and fro', 

Against the heaving boat. 



THE ROCK OF THE BETRAYED. 257 

XXXII. 

And no one spoke ; — that brother still 

His face averted kept, 
And the lady's tears fell fast and free 

O'er her infant as it slept. 

XXXIII. 

The cold faint evening breeze sprang up 

And found them floating on ; 
They glided o'er the glassy lake 

Till the day's last streak was gone — 

XXXIV. 

Till the day's last streak had died away 

From the chill and purple strand, 
And a mist was on the water's face 

And a damp dew on the land ; 

XXXV. 
Till you could not trace the living hue 

Of lip, or cheek, or eye, 
But the outline of each countenance 

Drawn dark against the sky. 



258 THE R0CK 0F THE BETRAYED. 

XXXVI. 

And all things had a ghastly look, 
An aspect strange and drear ; — 
The lady look'd to the distant shore 

And her heart beat wild with fear. 

* * * * 

XXXVII. 

There is a rock whose jutting height 
Stands frowning o'er that lake, 

Where the faintest call of the bugle horn 
The echo's voice will wake : — 

XXXVIII. 

And there the water lifts no wave 
To the breeze, so fresh and cool, 

But lies within the dark rock's curve, 
Like a black and gloomy pool. 

XXXIX. 

Its depth, is great, — a stone thrown in 
Hath a dull descending sound, 

The plummet hath not there been cast 
Which resting-place hath found. 



THE ROCK OF THE BETRAYED. 259 

XL. 

And scatter'd firs and birch-trees grow 

On the siunmit, here and there — 
Lonely and joylessly they wave, 

Like an old man's thin grey hair. 

XLL 

But not to nature's hand it owes 

Its mournfulness alone, 
For vague tradition gives the spot 

A horror of its own. 

XLII. 

The boatman doffs his cap beneath 

Its dark o'er-hanging shade, 
And whispers low its Gaelic name,— 

" The Rock of the Betray'd." 

XLIII. 

And when the wind, which never curls 

That pool, goes sweeping by, 
Bending the firs and birchen trees 

With a low and moaning sigh,- — 



260 THE ROCK OF THE BETRAYED. 

XLIV. 

He '11 tell you that the sound which comes 
So strange, and faint, and dim, 

Is only heard at one set hour, 
And call'd " the Lady's Hymn." 



THE LAMENT FOE SHUIL DONALD'S 
DAUGHTER. 



I. 

In old Shuil Donald's cottage there are many voices weeping, 
And stifled sobs, and murmurings of sorrow wild and 
vain, 
For the old man's cherish'd blessing on her bed of death 
lies sleeping, — ■ 
The sleep from which no human wish can rouse her soul 
again. 
Oh, dark are now those gentle eyes which shone beneath 
their lashes 
So full of laughter and of love — it seems but yesterday — 
Well may Shuil Donald mourn beside his hearth's forsaken 



His lily of the valley is wither'd away ! 



262 THE LAMENT FOR SHUIL DONALDS DAUGHTER. 
II. 

The spring shall come to other hearts with breezes and with 
showers, 
But lonely winter still shall reign in old Shuil Donald's 
home; 
Others may raise the song of joy, and laugh away the hours, 
But he — oh ! never more may joy to his lone dwelling 
come. 
Her name shall be an empty sound, in idle converse spoken, 
Forgotten shall she be by those who mourn her most 
to-day — 
All, all but one, who wanders with his Highland spirit 
broken, 
His lily of the valley is wither'd away ! 



III. 

And he — long, long, at even-tide, when sunset rays are 
gleaming, 
That sad old man shall sit within his lonely cottage door, 
Desolate, desolate shall sit, and muse with idle dreaming 
On days when her returning step came quick across the 
moor. 



THE LAMENT FOR SHUIL DONALD'S DAUGHTER. 263 

Oh! never more her quiet smile, her cheerful voice of 
greeting, 
Shall rouse to warmth his aged heart, when darkly sinks 
the day — 
Never, oh ! never more on earth those loved ones may be 
meeting — 
His lily of the valley is wither'd away ! 



WEEP NOT FOR HIM THAT DIETH. 



" Weep ye not for the dead, neither bemoan him ; but weep sore for him that 
goeth away, for he shall return no more, nor see his native country." — Jeremiah 
xxii. 10. 



I. 

Weep not for him that dieth — 

For he sleeps, and is at rest ; 
And the couch whereon he lieth 

Is the green earth's quiet breast : 
But weep for him who pineth 

On a far land's hateful shore, 
Who wearily declineth 

Where ye see his face no more ! 

II. 

Weep not for him that dieth, 
For friends are round his bed, 

And many a young lip sigheth 
When they name the early dead : 



WEEP NOT FOR HIM THAT DIETH. 265 

But weep for Kim that liveth 

Where none will know or care, 
When the groan his faint heart giveth 

Is the last sigh of despair. 

III. 

Weep not for hini that dieth, 

For his struggling soul is free, 
And the world from which it flieth 

Is a world of misery ; 
But weep for him that weareth 

The captive's galling chain : 
To the agony he beareth, 

Death were but little pain. 

IV. 

Weep not for him that dieth, 

For he hath ceased from tears, 
And a voice to his replieth 

Which he hath not heard for years ; 
But weep for him who weepeth 

On that cold land's cruel shore — 
Blest, blest is he that sleepeth, — 

Weep for the dead no more ! 



THE CHILD OF EARTH. 



Fainter her slow step falls from day to day, 

Death's hand is heavy on her darkening brow ; 
Yet doth she fondly cling to earth, and say, 

" I am content to die, but, oh ! not now ! 
Not while the blossoms of the joyous spring 

Make the warm air such luxury to breathe ; 
Not while the birds such lays of gladness sing ; 

Not while bright flowers around my footsteps wreathe. 
Spare me, great God, lift up my drooping brow ! 
I am content to die — but, oh ! not now ! " 



THE CHILD OF EARTH. 267 



II. 



The spring hath ripen'd into summer-time, 

The season's viewless boundary is past ; 
The glorious sun hath reach'd his burning prime ; 

Oh ! must this glimpse of beauty be the last ? 
" Let me not perish while o'er land and lea 

With silent steps the lord of light moves on ; 
Nor while the murmur of the mountain bee 

Greets my dull ear with music in its tone ! 
Pale sickness dims my eye, and clouds my brow ; 
I am content to die — but, oh ! not now ! " 

III. 

Summer is gone, and autumn's soberer hues 

Tint the ripe fruits, and gild the waving corn ; 
The huntsman swift the flying game pursues, 

Shouts the halloo, and winds his eager horn. 
" Spare me awhile to wander forth and gaze 

On the broad meadows and the quiet stream, 
To watch in silence while the evening rays 

Slant thro' the fading trees with ruddy gleam ! 
Cooler the breezes play around my brow ; 
I am content to die — but, oh ! not now ! " 

N 2 



268 THE CHILD OF EARTH. 

IV. 

The bleak wind whistles, snow-showers, far and near. 

Drift without echo to the whitening ground ; 
Autumn hath pass'd away, and, cold and drear, 

Winter stalks on, with frozen mantle bound. 
Yet still that prayer ascends : — " Oh ! laughingly 

My little brothers round the warm hearth crowd, 
Our home-fire blazes broad, and bright, and high, 

And the roof rings with voices glad and loud ; 
Spare me awhile ! raise up my drooping brow ! 
I am content to die — but, oh ! not now ! " 

V. 

The spring is come again — the joyful spring ! 

Again the banks with clustering flowers are spread : 
The wild bird dips upon its wanton wing : — 

The child of earth is number'd with the dead ! 
" Thee never more the sunshine shall awake. 

Beaming all redly thro' the lattice-pane ; 
The steps of friends thy slumbers may not break, 

Nor fond familiar voice arouse again ! 
Death's silent shadow veils thy darken'd brow ; 
Why didst thou linger ? — thou art happier now ! " 



THE CHRISTENING. 

(Of my Brother's infant Son, February 21, 1839.) 



I. 

There is a sound of laughter light and gay, 
And hurried welcomes, as of joyful greeting; 

The stir and murmur of a holiday, 

The grouping of glad friends each other meeting : 

And in the midst art thou — thou tiny flower, 

Whose coming hath so cheer'd this wintry hour ! 

II. 

Helpless thou liest, young blossom of our love ! 

The sunshine of fond smiles around thee beaming 
Blessings call'd down on thee from Heayen above, 

And every heart about thy future dreaming : — 
Meek peace and utter innocence are now 
The sole expression of thy baby brow. 



270 THE CHRISTENING. 

III. 

Helpless thou liest, thy little waxen face 
Eagerly scann'd by our inquiring glances, 

Hoping some lovely likeness there to trace, 

Which fancy finds, and so thy worth enhances ; 

Clothing with thought mature, and power of mind, 

Those infant features, yet so faintly lined. 

IV. 

And still thy youthful mother bendeth down 
Her large, soft, loving eyes, brimful of gladness, 

Her cheek almost as waxen as thine own, 
Her heart as innocently free from sadness : 

And still a brighter smile her red lip wears, 

As each her young son's loveliness declares. 

V. 

And sometimes as we gaze a sigh is heard, 

(Though from the happy group all grief seems banish'd,) 
As thou recallest, little nestling bird, 

Some long familiar face whose light hath vanish'd ; 
Some name, which yet hath power our hearts to thrill — 
Some smile, whose buried beauty haunts us still ! 



THE CHRISTENING. 271 

VI. 

All ! most to Her, the early widow'd, come 

Thoughts of the blossoms that from earth have perish'd; 
Lost to her lone and solitary home, 

Though in her brooding memory fondly cherish'd :— 
Her little grandson's baby-smiles recall 
Not one regretted hope of youth, but all ! 

VII. 

Her Son's son lies upon her cradling knee, 

And bids her heart return, with mournful dreaming, 

To her own first-born's helpless infancy, 

Whenhope — youth's guiding star — was brightly beaming ; 

And He, who died too soon, stood by and smiled, 
And bless'd alike the mother and her child. 

VIII. 

Since then, how many a year hath fleeted past ! 

What unforeseen events, what joys, what sorrows, 
With sunshine or with clouds have overcast 

The long succession of her lonely morrows ; 
Ere musing o'er this fair and new-born face, 
A fresh link carried on her orphan'd Race ! 



272 THE CHRISTENING. 

IX. 

Fair child, that race is not by man's award 
Ennobled, — but by God; no titles sounded 

By herald's trump, or smooth and flattering bard, 
Proclaim within what lines thy rank is bounded : — 

Thy power hereditary none confine, 

The gift of Genius, boy, by right is thine ! 

X. 

Be humble, for it is an envied thing ; 

And men whose creeping hearts have long submitted 
Around the column'd height to clasp and cling 

Of Titled Pride — by man to man transmitted, — 
Will grudge the power they have less cause to dread, 
Oppose thee living, and malign when dead. 

XL 

One of thy lineage served his country well 

(Though with her need her gratitude departed) ; 

What in her memory now is left to dwell ? 

The faults of him who died half broken-hearted : — 

And those, whose envious hands ne'er stretch'd to save, 

Pluck down the laurels springing from his grave. 



THE CHRISTENING. 273 

XII. 

Yet hush. ! it is a solemn hour ; and far 

Be human bitterness and vain upbraiding ; 

With hope we watch thy rising, thou young star, 
Hope not all earthly, or it were too fading ; 

For we are met to usher in thy life, 

With Prayer, — which lifteth hearts, and quelleth strife ! 

XIII. 

Hush'd is the busy group, and still as death ; 

All at the sacred altar meekly kneeling ; 
For thy sake, who so lately drew thy breath, 

All unto Heaven with earnest heart appealing. 
A solemn voice addresses the Most High, 
And with a murmuring echo we reply. 

XIV. 

All holy be the hour ! and, oh ! may Heaven 
Look down and bless the anxious mother's part, 

As meekly she confides the treasure given 
So lately to her young and hoping heart ; 

And pleads that God's great love may be his stay, 

And guide her little Wanderer on his way. 



274 THE CHRISTENING. 

XV. 
So let it be ! and when the noble head 

Of thy true-hearted father, babe beloved, 
Now glossy dark, is silver-gray instead, 

And thy young birth-day far away removed ; 
Still may'st thou be a comfort and a joy, — 
Still welcome as this day, unconscious boy ! 



THE MOTHER'S LAST WATCH. 

Written on the occasion of the death of the infant daughter of Her Grace the 
Duchess of Sutherland. 



I. 

Hark, through the proudly decorated halls, 

How strangely sounds the voice of bitter woe, 
Where steps that dread their echo as it falls 

Steal silently and sadly to and fro. 
There, wither'd lies the bud so lately given, 

And, beautiful in grief as when she smiled, 
Bow'd 'neath the unexpected stroke of Heaven, 

The mourning Mother watches o'er her Child. 

II. 

'Tis her last Watch ! Sleep seals those infant lids, 
Dark fall the lashes on that roseleaf cheek — 

But oh ! — the look is there, which Hope forbids ; 
Of Death — of Death those heavy eyelids speak !- 



276 THE MOTHER'S LAST WATCH. 

'Tis her last Watch ! — no more that gentle hand 
With cautious love shall curtain out the light — 

No more that graceful form shall mutely stand 
And bless thy slumbers thro' the shadowy night. 

III. 

Hush'd is the innocent heart which throbbing pain. 

Vain hope, and vain regret had never moved. 
The God who gave hath claim'd his gift again, 

And angels welcome her, on earth so loved. 
Yet still of hope and fear the endless strife 

Within that Mother's bosom faintly swells, 
Still, still she gazes on, and dreams of life, 

Though the fond falsehood Reason's pow'r repels. 

IV. 

Unheard each word of comfort faintly falls 

From lips whose tones in other days were dear, 
Her infant's smile is all her heart recalls, — 

Her infant's voice is all her heart can hear ; — 
She clasps its hand, the feverish glow of hers 

Wakes into warmth the freezing current's flow 
She bends, — her sobbing breath a ringlet stirs 

With mimic life upon its pallid brow. 



THE MOTHERS LAST WATCH. 277 

V. 

Oh ! what a mournful thing is human love ! 

In happier days of hope and bliss gone by 
The Mother's heart with pitying throb would move 

If but a teardrop dimm'd that laughing eye : 
And now she prays that Heaven the boon may give 

To hear from those pale lips a cry of pain — 
Aught that could bid her sinking soul revive, 

And tell the mourner thou wert hers again ! 

VI. 

Ah ! never more that dream of hope may be ! — 

The summer breeze among the boughs shall wave, 
The summer sun beam bright o'er land and lea, 

But thou, no spring shall wake thee from the grave ! 
No more those little rosy lips shall greet 

With brightly sudden smile her look of pride ; 
No more with falt'ring steps those fairy feet 

Shall totter onward to her cherish' d side. 

VII. 

All, all is over ! See, with painful start 

She wakens from her trance to feel the whole, 

And know the pang even from thy corse to part — 
Thou vainly guarded treasure of her soul ! 



278 THE MOTHERS LAST WATCH. 

The hand that, ah ! so often hath caress'd, 

Aids now to place thee in thy narrow bed ! 
The last wild kiss upon thy cheek is press'd — 

The last fond tear upon thy coffin shed ! 
And all is hush'd : but oft thro' Life's dull track 

(When time her present sorrow hath beguiled) 
That pale, sweet brow shall dimly bring us back 

The Mother's last Watch o'er her fairy Child ! 



SONNETS. 



SONNETS. 



I am aware that many strict critics object to the term " Sonnet" 
being applied to any poems but those written in the exact Italian 
measure ; unjustly, as I think, since the rich cadences and extreme 
facility of rhyming which make the Petrarchian stanza so easy and 
so beautiful in the original, do not exist in English. Milton, — who 
had travelled much in Italy ; who had been the idol of the Delia 
Cruscan Academy ; who counted among his personal friends and 
flatterers, not only " that renowned Provost of Eton " Sir Henry 
Wootton (previously ambassador to Venice), but all the most learned 
and distinguished men among the Florentine nobility ; to record 
whose talents as a linguist, Francini borrowed from Scripture the 
somewhat heathenishly worded compliment — 

" Nell' altera Babelle 

Per te il parlar confuse Giove in vano;" — 

Milton, — whose taste was formed in the Tuscan schools, adhered 
closely to the Italian model. But Shakspeare — master of no melody 
but that of his native tongue, in which he reigned, and still reigns, 
without a rival — has left us upwards of one hundred and fifty 
" Sonnets," in the simple measure of three alternate quatrains, closed 
by two heroic lines ; evidently considering the title generally appli- 
cable to all poems which follow Petrarch so far as to consist of a 
single thought carried through fourteen lines, however their rhythm 
may be modified to suit the necessities of our language. I am 
inclined to think the Shakspearian stanza a better English model 
than that adopted by Milton. The latter requires the chiselled and 
polished elegance of Rogers, or the skill of Wordsworth (whose 
" Sonnet in defence of Sonnets " is perhaps the most beautiful 
modern specimen of the imported foreign measure), to prevent that 
appearance of labour and stiffness too often consequent on the 
difficulty of its construction ; and if in the expression of this opinion 
I should seem to differ from those whose judgment ought to guide 
mine, I can only hope they will not consider me a rebellious fellow- 
servant of the Muses, since these observations are prefixed less in 
the form of a defence, than as an apology for the measure I have 
chosen. 



SONNETS. 283 



SONNET I. 

ON SEEING THE BUST OF THE YOUNG 
PRINCESS DE MONTFORT 



(In the studio of Bartolini, at Florence). 



Sweet marble ! didst thou merely represent, 

In lieu of her on whom our glances rest, 
Some common loveliness, — we were content, 

As with a modell'd beauty, well express'd ; 
But, by the very skill which makes thee seem 

So like her bright and intellectual face, 
The heart is led unsatisfied to dream ; 

For sculpture cannot give the breathing grace, 
The light which plays beneath that shadowy brow, 

Like sunshine on the fountains of the south, — 
The blush which tints that cheek with roseate glow,- 

The smile which hovers round that angel-mouth : 
No ! such the form o'er which Pygmalion sigh'd — 
Too fair to be complete while soul was still denied ! 



284 SONNETS. 



SONNET II. 



RAPHAEL. 



Blessed wert thou, whom Death, and not Decay, 

Bore from the world on swift and shadowy wings, 
Ere age or weakness dimm'd one brilliant ray 

Of thy rapt spirit's high imaginings ! 
While yet thy heart was full of fervid love, 

And thou wert haunted by resistless dreams 
Of all in earth beneath, or Heaven above, 

On which the light of beauty richest gleams, — 
Dead, but not deathlike, wert thou borne along ; 

Silent and cold, oh thou that didst combine 
Sculpture, and painting, and the gift of song ; 

While on thy brow, and on that work divine * 
Borne with thee, glow'd from thine Italian sky 
A light whose glory spoke of immortality ! 



* The celebrated picture of the Transfiguration (at which Raphael 
is said to have worked the evening before his death) was borne at 
the bier-head in the procession of his funeral. 



SONNETS. 285 

SONNET III. 

THE FORNARINA. 



And bless'd was she thou lovedst, for whose sake 

Thy wit did veil in fanciful disguise 
The answer which thou wert compell'd to make 

To Rome's High Priest, and call'd her then " Thine 
Eyes;"* 
Tho' of her life obscure there is no trace. 

Save where its thread with thy bright history twines, — 
Tho' all we know of her be that sweet face 

Whose nameless beauty from thy canvass shines, — 
Dependent still upon her Raphael's fame, 

And but recorded by her low degree, 
As one who had in life no higher claim 

Than to be painted and be loved by thee ; — 
Yet would I be forgot, as she is now, 
Once to have press'd my lips on that seraphic brow ! 



* Leo X., visiting Raphael in his studio, and seeing there the 
Fornarina, asked who and what she was? the painter replied, " Sono 
i miei occhi." 



286 SONNETS. 



SONNET IV. 



Be frank with me, and I accept my lot ; 

But deal not with me as a grieving child, 
Who for the loss of that which he hath not 

Is by a show of kindness thus beguiled. 
Raise not for me, from its enshrouded tomb, 

The ghostly likeness of a hope deceased ; 
Nor think to cheat the darkness of my doom 

By wavering doubts how far thou art released: 
This dressing Pity in the garb of Love, — 

This effort of the heart to seem the same, — 
These sighs and lingerings, (which nothing prove 

But that thou leav'st me with a kind of shames- 
Remind me more, by their most vain deceit, 
Of the dear loss of all which thou dost counterfeit. 



SONNETS. 287 



SONNET V. 



Because I know that there is that in me 

Of which thou shouldst be proud, and not ashamed,- 
Because I feel one made thy choice should be 

Not even by fools and slanderers rashly blamed, — 
Because I fear, howe'er thy soul may strive 

Against the weakness of that inward pain, 
The falsehoods which my enemies contrive 

Not always seek to wound thine ear in vain, — 
Therefore I sometimes weep, when I should smile, 

At all the vain frivolity and sin 
Which those who know me not (yet me revile) — 

My would-be judges — cast my actions in ; 
But else their malice hath nor sting nor smart — 
For I appeal from them, Beloved, to thine own heart ! 



288 SONNETS. 



SONNET VI. 



Where the red wine-cup floweth, there art thou ! 

Where luxury curtains out the evening sky; — 
Triumphant Mirth sits flush'd upon thy brow, 

And ready laughter lurks within thine eye. 
Where the long day declineth, lone I sit, 

In idle thought, my listless hands entwined, 
And, faintly smiling at remember'd wit, 

Act the scene over to my musing mind. 
In my lone dreams I hear thy eloquent voice, 

I see the pleased attention of the throng, 
And bid my spirit in thy joy rejoice, 

Lest in love's selfishness I do thee wrong. 
Ah ! midst that proud and mirthful company 
Send'st thou no wandering thought to love and me ? 



SONNETS. 289 



SONNET VII. 



Like an enfranchised bird, who wildly springs, 

With a keen sparkle in his glancing eye 
And a strong effort in his quivering wings, 

Up to the blue vault of the happy sky, — 
So my enamour 1 d heart, so long thine own, 

At length from Love's imprisonment set free, 
Goes forth into the open world alone, 

Glad and exulting in its liberty : 
But like that helpless bird, (confined so long, 

His weary wings have lost all power to soar,) 
Who soon forgets to trill his joyous song, 

And, feebly fluttering, sinks to earth once more, — 
So, from its former bonds released in vain, 
My heart still feels the weight of that remember'd chain. 



290 SONNETS. 



SONNET VIII. 

TO MY BOOKS. 



Silent companions of the lonely hour, 

Friends, who can never alter or forsake, 
Who for inconstant roving have no power, 

And all neglect, perforce, must calmly take, — 
Let me return to you ; this turmoil ending 

Which worldly cares have in my spirit wrought, 
And, o'er your old familiar pages bending, 

Refresh my mind with many a tranquil thought : 
Till, haply meeting there, from time to time, 

Fancies, the audible echo of my own, 
'Twill be like hearing in a foreign clime 

My native language spoke in friendly tone, 
And with a sort of welcome I shall dwell 
On these, my unripe musings, told so well. 



SONNETS. 291 



SONNET IX. 



TO THE COUNTESS HELENE ZAVADOWSKY. 



When our young Queen put on her rightful crown 

In Gothic Westminster's long-hallow'd walls, 
The eye upon no lovelier sight look'd down 

Than thou, fair Russian! Memory still recalls 
The soft light of thy sapphire-colour'd eyes, 

The rich twine of thy simply-braided hair, 
And the low murmur of the crowd's surprise 

To see thee pass along so strangely fair. 
Nor didst thou charm by looks and smiles alone, — 

Thy "broken English" had its share of grace ; 
For something in thy accent and thy tone 

So match'd the beauty of thy gentle face, 
We seem'd to hear our old familiar words 
Set to some foreign lute or harp's melodious chords ! 



292 SONNETS. 



SONNET X. 



TO TAGLIONI. 



Spirit of Grace, whose airy footsteps fall 

So lightly ! sure the looker-on must be 
Most dull of fancy who doth not recall 

Some sweet comparison to picture thee ! 
The white snow, drifting in its soundless showers, — 

The young bird resting on a summer-bough, — 
The south-wind bending down the opening flowers, — 

The clear wave lifted with a gentle flow, — 
Rippling and bright, advancing and retreating, 

Curling around the rock its dancing spray, 
Like a fair child whose kiss of gentle greeting 

Woos a companion to make holiday, — 
Such are the thoughts of beauty round me shed, 
While pleased my eyes pursue thy light elastic tread. 



SONNETS. 293 



SONNET XI. 

THE MOSS-WALK AT MARKLY, SUSSEX. 

(To S. D.) 



Green avenue, whose shadow dim and sweet 

Pleasantly shelter'd me in days of yore, 
Dear lost companion, whose slow-pacing feet 

Then wander'd with me on that moss-paved floor, — 
Still, like a natural temple, spring those trees, 

Their column'd stems high-arching over-head ? 
Still dost thou love, while sighs the murmuring breeze. 

At Summer eve that velvet path to tread? 
Then, gentle friend, in whose unworldly eyes, 

And on whose calm, serene, expressive brow, 
The light of many a prayer reflected lies, 

As thou with Heaven didst constant commune know,- 
Though, in this world, divided we must be, 
Kneel in that quiet spot, and pray to God for me ! 



294 SONNETS, 



SONNET XII. 



THE DISDAINED LOVER. 



I stand beside the waves, — the mournful waves, — 

Where thou didst stand in silence and in fear, 
For thou wert train'd by custom's haughty slaves, 

And love, from such as I, disdain'd to hear ; 
Yet, with the murmur of the echoing sea, 

And the monotonous billows, rolling on, 
AVere mingled sounds of weeping, — for in thee 

All nature was not harden'd into stone: 
And from the shore there came a distant chime 

From the old village-clock ; — ah ! since that day. 
Like a dull passing-bell each stroke of time 

Falls on my heart; and in the ocean spray 
A voice of lamentation seems to dwell, 
As in that bitter hour of agonised farewell! 



SONNETS. 295 



SONNET XIII. 



THE WEAVER. 



Little they think, the giddy and the vain, 

Wandering at pleasure 'neath the shady trees, 
While the light glossy silk or rustling train 

Shines in the sun or flutters in the breeze, 
How the sick weaver plies the incessant loom, 

Crossing in silence the perplexing thread, 
Pent in the confines of one narrow room, 

Where droops complainingly his cheerless head : — 
Little they think with what dull anxious eyes, 

Nor by what nerveless, thin, and trembling hands, 
The devious mingling of those various dyes 

Were wrought to answer Luxury's commands : 
But the day cometh when the tired shall rest, — 
Where weary Lazarus leans his head on Abraham's breast ! 



296 SONNETS. 



SONNET XIV. 



"Ay ojuelos verdes, 
Ay los mis ojuelos, 
Ay hagan los cielos 
Que de mi te acuerdesP* 



Oh ! crystal eyes, in which my image lay 

While I was near, as in a fountain's wave ; 
Let it not in like manner pass away 

When I am gone ; for I am Love's true slave, 
And in my eyes thine image dwells enshrined, 

Like one who dazzled hath beheld the sun, 
So that to other beauty I am blind, 

And scarce distinguish what I gaze upon : 
Let it be thus with thee ! By all our vows, — 

By the true token-ring upon thy hand, — 
Let such remembrance as my worth allows 

Between thee and each bright temptation stand, — 
That I, in those clear orbs, on my return, 
As in the wave's green depth, my shadow may discern. 



* See the notes to a beautiful volume of poems by Bryant, 
where this fragment of a Spanish ballad is given. 



SONNETS. 297 



SONNET XV. 



TO MISS AUGUSTA COWELL. 

[To whom I owe the popularity of some of my favourite ballads.] 



When thy light fingers touch th' obedient chords, 

Which, with a gentle murmur, low respond, 
Waiting the measure of the coming words 

From that sweet voice, so plaintive, sad, and fond,- 
Say does some winged Ariel, hovering near, 

Teach thee his island music note for note, 
That thou may'st copy with an echo clear 

Th' enchanted symphonies that round thee float ? 
Or do all Melodies, whilst thou art playing, 

(Each with the offering of some chorded sound,) 
On the low slanting sunbeam earthward straying, 

Like meek subservient spirits wander round ; 
In Harmony's dim language asking thee 
Which of them, for the hour, shall thy attendant be? 



298 SONNETS. 

SONNET XVI. 

PRINCESS MARIE OF WIRTEMBURG. 



White Rose of Bourbon's branch,, so early faded ! 

When thou wert carried to thy silent rest, 
And every brow with heavy gloom was shaded, 

And every heart with fond regret oppress'd,— 
Sweet was the thought thy brother gave to him 

Who, far away on Ocean's restless wave, 
Could not behold those fair eyes closed and dim, 

Nor see thee laid in thy untimely grave ! 
And, pitying him who yet thy loss must hear, — 

Whose absent breast a later pang must feel, — 
Murmur'd, with touching sadness, by thy bier, 

u Adieu for me ! Adieu for Joinville! " 
Sweet was the thought, and tender was the heart 
Which thus remember'd all who in its love had part.* 



* The touching anecdote is told of the youthful Due d'Aumale, that, 
when the members of the royal family were bidding farewell to the 
sacred remains of the Princess Marie (the Prince de Joinville being 
then absent with his ship), he turned with a gush of sorrow, and bid 
adieu, not only for himself, but in the name of his absent brother. 



SONNETS. 299 



XVII. 

Nor wert thou only by thy kindred wept, — 

Young mother ! gentle daughter ! cherish'd wife ! 
Deep in her memory France hath fondly kept 

The records of thy unassuming life : 
Oft shall the statue heroine * bring to mind, — 

As pale it gleams beneath the light of day, 
In all the thoughtful grace by thee design'd, — 

The worth and talent which have pass'd away ! 
Oft shall the old, who see thy child pass by, 

Smiling and glad, despite his orphan'd lot, 
Look on him with a blessing and a sigh; 

As one who suffers loss, yet feels it not, 
But lifting up his innocent eyes in prayer, 
Vaguely imagines Heaven, — foretaught that thou art there ! 



* The statue of Joan of Arc, designed and executed by the 
Princess herself. 



300 SONNETS. 



SONNET XVIII. 

ON HEARING OF THE DEATH OF 

THE COUNTESS OF BURLINGTON. 

[Inscribed, with deep and earnest sympathy, to her Mother, 
The Countess of Carlisle.] 



Since in the pleasant time of opening flowers 

That fiow'r, Her life, was doom'd to fade away,— 
Since Her dear loss hath shaded lovely hours, 

And turn'd to mourning all the smiles of May, — 
Henceforward when the warm soft breath of Spring 

Bids cowslips star the meadows, thick and sweet ; 
When doves are in the green wood murmuring, 

And children wander with delighted feet ; 
When, by their own rich beauty downward bent, 

Soft Guelder-roses hang their tufts of snow, 
And purple lilacs yield a fragrant scent, 

And bright laburnum droops its yellow bough; — 
Let that Spring-time be welcomed with a sigh, 
For Her lamented sake, — who was so young to die ! 



SONNETS. 301 



XIX. 

But since, in all that brief Life's narrow scope, 

No day pass'd by without some gentle deed, 
Let us not "mourn like them that have no hope," 

Though sharp the stroke, — and suddenly decreed ; 
For still, when Spring puts out her tender leaves, 

And Nature's beauty seems to bud in vain, 
(Since then the yearning spirit doubly grieves 

With fresh remembrance of unconquer'd pain,) 
Returns the precious memory of all 

The grace and goodness of that creature fair, 
Whom it pleased God in early days to call 

From this dim world of trouble, toil, and care, — 
And seldom is such bless'd conviction given 
That She we mourn on Earth is now a Saint in Heaven ! 



A VOICE FROM THE FACTORIES. 



DEDICATED TO 



THE RIGHT HON. LORD ASHLEY. 

(Reprinted from the edition of 1836.) 



A VOICE FROM THE FACTORIES. 



" As sickly plants betray a niggard earth, 
Whose ban-en bosom starves her generous birth, 
Nor genial warmth, nor genial juice retains, 
Their roots to feed, and fill their verdant veins, 
And as in climes where winter holds his reign, 
The soil, though fertile, will not teem in vain, 
Forbids her gems to swell, her shades to rise, 
Nor trusts her blossoms to the churlish skies, — 
So draw Mankind in vain the vital airs, 
Unform'd, unfriended by those kindly cares 
That health and vigour to the soul impart, 
Spread the young thought, and warm the opening heart." 

Gray's l Alliance of Education and Government.' 



" The abuses even of such a business must be cautiously dealt with; lest, in 
eradicating them, we shake or disorder the whole fabric. We admit, however, 
that the case of children employed in the Cotton Factories is one of those 
which call fairly for legislative regulation." 

M'CULLOCH. 



VOICE FROM THE FACTORIES 



I. 

When fallen man from Paradise was driven 
Forth to a world of labour, death, and care, 
Still of his native Eden, bounteous Heaven 
Resolved one brief memorial to spare, 
And gave his offspring an imperfect share 
Of that lost happiness, amid decay ; 
Making their first approach to life seem fair. 
And giving, for the Eden past away, 
Childhood, the weary life's long happy holiday. 



308 A VOICE FROM THE FACTORIES. 

II. 

Sacred to heavenly peace those years remain ; 
And when with clouds their dawn is overcast, 
Unnatural seem the sorrow and the pain 
(Which rosy joy flies forth to banish fast, 
Because that season's sadness may not last). 
Light is their grief ! a word of fondness cheers 
The unhaunted heart ; the shadow glideth past ; 
Unknown to them the weight of boding fears, 
And soft as dew on flowers their bright, ungrieving tears. 






III. 

See the stage-wonder (taught to earn its bread 
By the exertion of an infant skill) 
Forsake the wholesome slumbers of its bed, 
And mime, obedient to the public will. 
Where is the heart so cold that does not thrill 
With a vexatious sympathy, to see 
That child prepare to play its part, and still 
With simulated airs of gaiety 
Rise to the dangerous rope, and bend the supple knee ? 



A VOICE FROM THE FACTORIES. 309 

IV. 

Painted and spangled, trembling there it stands, 
Glances below for friend or father's face, 
Then lifts its small round arms and feeble hands 
With the taught movements of an artist's grace ; 
Leaves its uncertain gilded resting-place — 
Springs lightly as the elastic cord gives way — 
And runs along with scarce perceptible pace — 
Like a bright bird upon a waving spray, 
Fluttering and sinking still, whene'er the branches play. 



V. 

Now watch! a joyless and distorted smile 
Its innocent lips assume (the dancer's leer !), 
Conquering its terror for a little while ; 
Then lets the truth of infancy appear, 
And with a stare of nunib'd and childish fear 
Looks sadly towards the audience come to gaze 
On the unwonted skill which costs so dear, 
While still the applauding crowd, with pleased amaze, 
King through its dizzy ears unwelcome shouts of praise. 



310 A VOICE FROM THE FACTORIES. 

VI. 

What is it makes us feel relieved to see 
That hapless little dancer reach the ground ; 
With its whole spirit's elasticity 
Thrown into one glad, safe, triumphant bound ? 
Why are we sad, when, as it gazes round 
At that wide sea of paint, and gauze, and plumes, 
(Once more awake to sense, and sight, and sound,) 
The nature of its age it re-assumes, 
And one spontaneous smile at length its face illumes ? 



VII. 

Because we feel, for childhood's years and strength, 
Unnatural and hard the task hath been ; — 
Because our sicken'd souls revolt at length, 
And ask what infant innocence may mean 
Thus toiling thro' the artificial scene ; — 
Because at that word, childhood, start to birth 
All dreams of hope and happiness serene — 
All thoughts of innocent joy that visit earth — 
Prayer — slumber — fondness — smiles — and hours of rosy 
mirth. 



A VOICE FROM THE FACTORIES. 3]] 

VIII. 

And therefore, when we hear the shrill faint cries 
Which mark the wanderings of the little sweep ; 
Or when, with glittering teeth and sunny eyes, 
The boy-Italian's voice, so soft and deep, 
Asks alms for his poor marmoset asleep ; 
They fill our hearts with pitying regret, 
Those little vagrants doom'd so soon to weep, — 
As tho' a term of joy for all was set, 
And that their share of Life's long suffering was not yet. 



IX. 

Ever a toiling child doth make us sad : 
'T is an unnatural and mournful sight, 
Because we feel their smiles should be so glad, 
Because we know their eyes should be so bright. 
What is it, then, when, task'd beyond their might, 
They labour all day long for others' gain, — 
Nay, trespass on the still and pleasant night, 
While uncompleted hours of toil remain ? 
Poor little Factory Slaves — for you these lines complain ! 



312 A VOICE FROM THE FACTORIES. 

X. 

Beyond all sorrow which the wanderer knows 
Is that these little pent-up wretches feel ; 
Where the air thick and close and stagnant grows, 
And the low whirring of the incessant wheel 
Dizzies the head and makes the senses reel : 
There, shut for ever from the gladdening sky, 
Vice premature and Care's corroding seal 
Stamp on each sallow cheek their hateful die, 
Line the smooth open brow, and sink the sadden'd eye. 



XL 

For them the fervid summer only brings 
A double curse of stifling withering heat ; 
For them no flowers spring up, no wild bird sings, 
No moss-grown walks refresh their weary feet ; — 
No river's murmuring sound ; — no wood- walk, sweet 
With many a flower the Learned slight and pass ; — 
Nor meadow, with pale cowslips thickly set 
Amid the soft leaves of its tufted grass, — 
Lure them a childish stock of treasures to amass. 



A VOICE FROM THE FACTORIES. 313 

XII. 

Have we forgotten our own infancy, 
That joys so simple are to them denied ? — 
Our boyhood's hopes — our wanderings far and free, 
Where yellow gorse-bush left the common wide 
And open to the breeze ? — The active pride 
Which made each obstacle a pleasure seem ; 
When, rashly glad, all danger we defied, 
Dash'd thro' the brook by twilight's fading gleam, 
Or scorn'd the tottering plank, and leapt the narrow stream ? 



XIII. 
In lieu of this, — from short and bitter night, 
Sullen and sad the infant labourer creeps ; 
He joys not in the glow of morning's light, 
But with an idle yearning stands and weeps, 
Envying the babe that in its cradle sleeps : 
And ever, as he slowly journeys on, 
His listless tongue unbidden silence keeps ; 
His fellow-labourers {playmates hath he none) 
Walk by, as sad as he, nor hail the morning sun. 



314 A VOICE FROM THE FACTORIES. 

XIV. 

Mark the result. Unnaturally debarr'd 
All Nature's fresh and innocent delights, 
While yet each germing energy strives hard, 
And pristine good with pristine evil fights ; 
When every passing dream the heart excites, 
And makes even guarded virtue insecure ; 
Untaught, uncheck'd, they yield as vice invites : 
With all around them cramp'd, confined, impure, 
Fast spreads the moral plague which nothing new shall cure. 



XV. 

Yes, this reproach is added ; (infamous 
In realms which own a Christian monarch's sway \) 
Not suffering only is their portion, thus 
Compell'd to toil their youthful lives away : 
Excessive labour works the soul's decay — 
Quenches the intellectual light within — 
Crushes with iron weight the mind's free play — 
Steals from us leisure purer thoughts to win — 
And leaves us sunk and lost in dull and native sin. 



A VOICE FROM THE FACTORIES. 315 

XVI. 

Yet in the British senate men rise up, 
(The rreeborn and the fathers of our land !) 
And, while these drink the dregs of Sorrow's cup, 
Deny the sufferings of the pining band. 
With nice-drawn calculations at command, 
They prove — rebut — explain — and reason long ; 
Proud of each shallow argument they stand, 
And prostitute their utmost powers of tongue 
Feebly to justify this great and glaring wrong. 



XVII. 

So rose, with such a plausible defence 
Of the unalienable right of gain, 
Those who against Truth's brightest eloquence 
Upheld the cause of torture and of pain : 
And fear of property's decrease made vain, 
For years, the hope of Christian charity 
To lift the curse from Slavery's dark domain, 
And send across the wide Atlantic sea 
The watchword of brave men — the thrilling shout " Be 
Free ! " 



316 A VOICE FROM THE FACTORIES. 

XVIII. 

Oh! shall it then be said that Tyrant acts 
Are those which cause our country's looms to thrive ? 
That Merchant England's prosperous trade exacts 
This bitter sacrifice, e'er she derive 
That profit due for which the feeble strive ? 
Is her commercial avarice so keen, 
That in her busy multitudinous hive 
Hundreds must die like insects, scarcely seen, 
While the thick-throng'd survivors work where they have 
been ? 

XIX. 

Forbid it, Spirit of the glorious Past 
Which gain'd our Isle the surname of " The Free," 
And made our shores a refuge at the last 
To all who would not bend the servile knee, 
The vainly- vanquish' d sons of Liberty ! 
Here ever came the injured, the oppress'd, 
Compell'd from the Oppressor's face to flee — 
And found a home of shelter and of rest 
In the warm generous heart that beat in England's breast. 



A VOICE FROM THE FACTORIES. 317 

XX. 

Here came trie Slave, who straightway burst his chain, 
And knew that none could ever bind hiin more ; 
Here came the melancholy sons of Spain ; 
And here, more buoyant Gaul's illustrious poor 
Waited the same bright day that shone before. 
Here rests the Enthusiast Pole ! and views afar 
With dreaming hope, from this protecting shore, 
The trembling rays of Liberty's pale star 
Shine forth in vain to light the too-unequal war ! 



XXI. 

And shall Reproach cling darkly to the name 
Which every memory so much endears ? 
Shall we, too, tyrannise, — and tardy Fame 
Revoke the glory of our former years, 
And stain Britannia's flag with children's tears ? 
So shall the mercy of the English throne 
Become a by-word in the Nations' ears, 
As one who pitying heard the stranger's groan, 
But to these nearer woes was cold and deaf as stone. 



318 A VOICE FROM THE FACTORIES. 

XXII. 
Are there not changes made which grind the Poor ? 
Are there not losses every day sustain'd, — 
Deep grievances, which make the spirit sore ? 
And what the answer, when these have complain'd I 
" For crying evils there hath been ordain'd 
The Remedy of Change ; to obey its call 
Some individual loss must be disdain'd, 
And pass as unavoidable and small, 
Weigh' d with the broad result of general good to all." 



XXIII. 

Oh! such an evil now doth cry aloud! 
And Change should be by generous hearts begun, 
Though slower gain attend the prosperous crowd, 
Lessening the fortunes for their children won. 
Why should it grieve a father, that his son 
Plain competence must moderately bless ? 
That he must trade, even as his sire has done, 
Xot born to independent idleness, 
Though honestly above all probable distress ? 



A VOICE FROM THE FACTORIES. 319 

XXIV. 

Rejoice ! Thou hast not left enough of gold 
From the lined heavy ledger, to entice 
His drunken hand, irresolutely bold, 
To squander it in haggard haunts of vice : — 
The hollow rattling of the uncertain dice 
Eats not the portion which thy love bestow'd ; — 
Unable to afford that Pleasure's price, 
Far off he slumbers in his calm abode, 
And leaves the Idle Rich to follow Ruin's road. 



XXV. 

Happy his lot ! For him there shall not be 
The cold temptation given by vacant time ; 
Leaving his young and uncurb'd spirit free 
To wander thro' the feverish paths of crime ! 
For him the Sabbath bell's returning chime 
Not vainly ushers in God's day of rest; 
No night of riot clouds the morning's prime : 
Alert and glad, not languid and oppress'd, 
He wakes, and with calm soul is the Creator bless'd. 



320 A VOICE FROM THE FACTORIES. 

XXVI. 

Ye save for children ! Fathers, is there not 
A plaintive magic in the name of child, 
Which makes you feel compassion for their lot 
On whom Prosperity hath never smiled ? 
When with your own an hour hath been beguiled 
(For whom you hoard the still increasing store), 
Surely, against the face of Pity mild, 
Heart-hardening Custom vainly bars the door, 
For that less favour 'd race — The Children of the Poor. 



XXVII. 

" The happy homes of England!" — they have been 
A source of triumph, and a theme for song ; 
And surely, if there be a hope serene 
And beautiful, which may to Earth belong, 
'Tis when (shut out the world's associate throng, 
And closed the busy day's fatiguing hum), 
Still waited for with expectation strong, 
Welcom'd with joy, and overjoy'd to come, 
The good man goes to seek the twilight rest of home. 



A VOICE FROM THE FACTORIES. 321 

XXVIII. 

There sits his gentle Wife, who with him knelt 
Long years ago at God's pure altar-place ; 
Still beautiful, — though all that she hath felt 
Hath calm'd the glory of her radiant face, 
And given her brow a holier, softer grace. 
Mother of Souls Immortal, she doth feel 
A glow from Heaven her earthly love replace ; 
Prayer to her lip more often now doth steal, 
And meditative hope her serious eyes reveal. 



XXIX. 

Fondly familiar is the look she gives 
As he returns, who forth so lately went, — 
For they together pass their happy lives ; 
And many a tranquil evening have they spent 
Since, blushing, ignorantly innocent, 
She vow'd, with downcast eyes and changeful hue, 
To love him only. Love fulfill'd hath lent 
Its deep repose ; and, when he meets her view, 
Her soft look only says, — " I trust — and I am true." 



322 A VOICE FROM THE FACTORIES. 

XXX. 

Scatter'd like flowers, the rosy children play — 
Or round her chair a busy crowd they press ; 
But, at the Father's coming, start away, 
With playful struggle for his loved caress, 
And jealous of the one he first may bless. 
To each, a welcoming word is fondly said ; 
He bends and kisses some ; lifts up the less ; 
Admires the little cheek, so round and red, 
Or smooths with tender hand the curl'd and shining head. 



XXXI. 

Oh ! let us pause, and gaze upon them now. 
Is there not one — beloved and lovely boy! 
With Mirth's bright seal upon his open brow, 
And sweet fond eyes, brimful of love and joy? 
He, whom no measure of delight can cloy, 
The daring and the darling of the set ; 
He who, though pleased with every passing toy, 
Thoughtless and buoyant to excess, could yet 
Never a gentle word or kindly deed forget ? 






A VOICE FROM THE FACTORIES. 323 

XXXII. 

And one, more fragile than the rest, for whom — 
As for the weak brid in a crowded nest — 
Are needed all the fostering care of home 
And the soft comfort of the brooding breast : 
One, who hath oft the couch of sickness press'd ! 
On whom the Mother looks, as it goes by, 
With tenderness intense, and fear suppress'd, 
While the soft patience of her anxious eye 
Blends with " God's will be done," — " God grant thou 
may'st not die!" 

XXXIII. 

And is there not the elder of the band? 
She with the gentle smile and smooth bright hair, 
Waiting, some paces back, — content to stand 
Till these of Love's caresses have their share ; 
Knowing how soon his fond paternal care 
Shall seek his violet in her shady nook, — 
Patient she stands — demure, and brightly fan — 
Copying the meekness of her Mother's look, 
And clasping in her hand the favourite story-book. 



324 A VOICE FROM THE FACTORIES. 

XXXIV. 

Wake, dreamer! — Choose; — to labour Life away, 
Which of these little precious ones shall go 
(Debarr'd of sunrmer-light and cheerful play) 
To that receptacle for dreary woe, 
The Factory Mill ? — Shall He, in whom the glow 
Of Life shines bright, whose free limbs' vigorous tread 
Warns us how much of beau^ r that we know 
Would fade, when he became dispirited, 
And pined with sicken'd heart, and bow'd his fainting 
head? 

XXXV. 

Or shall the little quiet one, whose voice 
So rarely mingles in their sounds of glee, 
Whose life can bid no living thing rejoice, 
But rather is a long anxiety; — 
Shall he go forth to toil ? and keep the free 
Frank boy, whose merry shouts and restless grace 
W^ould leave all eyes that used his face to see 
Wistfully gazing towards that vacant space 
Which makes their fireside seem a lone and dreary place ? 






A VOICE FROM THE FACTORIES. 325 

XXXVI. 

Or, sparing these, send Her whose simplest words 
Have power to charm, — whose warbled, childish song, 
Fluent and clear and bird-like, strikes the chords 
Of sympathy among the listening throng, — 
Whose spirits light, and steps that dance along, 
Instinctive modesty and grace restrain: 
The fair young innocent who knows no wrong, — 
Whose slender wrists scarce hold the silken skein 
Which the glad Mother winds; — shall She endure this 



XXXVII. 

Away ! The thought — the thought alone brings tears ! 
They labour — they, the darlings of our lives ! 
The flowers and sunbeams of our fleeting years ; 
From whom alone our happiness derives 
A lasting strength, which every shock survives ; 
The green young trees beneath whose arching boughs 
(When failing Energy no longer strives) 
Our wearied age shall find a cool repose ; — 
They toil in torture ! — No — the painful picture close. 



326 A VOICE FROM THE FACTORIES. 

XXXVIII. 

Ye shudder, — nor behold the vision more ! 
Oh, Fathers ! is there then one law for these, 
And one for the pale children of the Poor, — 
That to then agony your hearts can freeze ; 
Deny their pain, their toil, their slow disease ; 
And deem with false complaining they encroach 
Upon your time and thought ? Is yours the Ease 
Which misery vainly struggles to approach, 
Whirling unthinking by, in Luxury's gilded coach ? 



XXXIX. 

Examine and decide. Watch through his day 
One of these little ones. The sun hath shone 
An hour, and by the ruddy morning's ray, 
The last and least, he saunters on alone. 
See where, still pausing on the threshold stone, 
He stands, as loth to lose the bracing wind ; 
With wistful wandering glances backward thrown 
On all the light and glory left behind, 
And sighs to think that He must darkly be confined ! 



A VOICE FROM THE FACTORIES. 30- 

XL. 

Enter with him. The stranger who surveys 
The little natives of that dreary place 
(Where squalid suffering meets his shrinking gaze), 
Used to the glory of a young child's face, 
Its changeful light, its colour' d sparkling grace, 
(Gleams of Heaven's sunshine on our shadow'd earth!) 
Starts at each visage wan, and bold, and base, 
Whose smiles have neither innocence nor mirth, — 
And comprehends the Sin original from birth. 



XLI. 

There the pale Orphan, whose unequal strength 
Loathes the incessant toil it must pursue, 
Pines for the cool sweet evening's twilight length, 
The sunny play-hour, and the morning's dew : 
Worn with its cheerless life's monotonous hue, 
Bow'd down, and faint, and stupified it stands ; 
Each half-seen object reeling in its view — 
While its hot, trembling, languid little hands 
Mechanically heed the Task-master's commands. 



328 A VOICE FROM THE FACTORIES. 

XLIL 

There, sounds of wailing grief and painful blows 
Offend the ear, and startle it from rest ; 
(While the lungs gasp what air the place bestows ;) 
Or misery's joyless vice, the ribald jest, 
Breaks the sick silence : staring at the guest 
Who comes to view their labour, they beguile 
The unwatch'd moment ; whispers half suppress'd 
And mutterings low, their faded lips defile, — 
While gleams from face to face a strange and sullen smile. 



XLIII. 

These then are his Companions : he, too young 
To share their base and saddening merriment, 
Sits by : his little head in silence hung ; 
His limbs cramp'd up ; his body weakly bent; 
Toiling obedient, till long hours so spent 
Produce Exhaustion's slumber, dull and deep. 
The Watcher's stroke, — bold — sudden — violent, — 
Urges him from that lethargy of sleep, 
And bids him wake to Life, — to labour and to weep ! 



A VOICE FROM THE FACTORIES. 329 

XLIV. 

But the day hath, its End. Forth then he hies 
With jaded, faltering step, and brow of pain; 
Creeps to that shed, — his Home, — where happy lies 
The sleeping babe that cannot toil for Gain ; 
Where his remorseful Mother tempts in vain 
With the best portion of their frugal fare : 
Too sick to eat — too weary to complain — 
He turns him idly from the untasted share, 
Slumbering sinks down unfed, and mocks her useless care. 



XLV. 

W^eeping she lifts, and lays his heavy head 
(With all a woman's grieving tenderness) 
On the hard surface of his narrow bed ; 
Bends down to give a sad unfelt caress, 
And turns away; — willing her God to bless, 
That, weary as he is, he need not fight 
Against that long-enduring bitterness, 
The Voluntary Labour of the Night, 
But sweetly slumber on till day's returning light. 



330 A VOICE FROM THE FACTORIES. 

XLYI. 

Vain hope ! Alas ! unable to forget 
The anxious task's long, heavy agonies, 
In broken sleep the victim labours yet ! 
Waiting the boding stroke that bids him rise, 
He marks in restless fear each hour that flies — 
Anticipates the unwelcome morning prime — 
And murmuring feebly, with unwaken'd eyes, 
" Mother ! Oh Mother ! is it yet the Time ?" 
Starts at the moon's pale ray — or clock's far distant chime. 



XLVIL 

Such is Ms day and night ! Now then return 
Where your Own slumber in protected ease ; 
They whom no blast may pierce, no sun may burn ; 
The lovely, on whose cheeks the wandering breeze 
Hath left the rose's hue. Ah ! not like these 
Does the pale infant-labourer ask to be : 
He craves no tempting food — no toys to please — 
Not Idleness, — but less of agony ; 
Not Wealth, — but comfort, rest, Contented Poverty. 






A VOICE FROM THE FACTORIES, 331 

XLVIII. 

There is, among all men, in every clime, 
A difference instinctive and unschool'd : 
God made the Mind unequal. From all time 
By fierceness conquer'd, or by cunning fool'd, 
The World hath had its Rulers and its Ruled : — 
Yea — uncompell'd — men abdicate free choice, 
Fear their own rashness, and, by thinking cool'd, 
Follow the counsel of some trusted voice ; — 
A self-elected sway, wherein their souls rejoice. 



XLIX. 

Thus, for the most part, willing to obey, 
Men rarely set Authority at naught : 
Albeit a weaker or a worse than they 
May hold the rule with such importance fraught : 
And thus the peasant, from his cradle taught 
That some must otvn, while some must till the land, 
Rebels not — murmurs not — even in his thought. 
Born to his lot, he bows to high command, 
And guides the furrowing plough with a contented hand. 



332 A VOICE FROM THE FACTORIES. 

L. 

But, if the weight which habit renders light 
Is made to gall the Serf who bends below — 
The dog that watch'd and fawn'd, prepares to bite ! 
Too rashly strain'd, the cord snaps from the bow — 
Too tightly curb'd, the steeds their riders throw — 
And so, (at first contented his fair state 
Of customary servitude to know,) 
Too harshly ruled, the poor man learns to hate 
And curse the oppressive law that bids him serve the Great. 



LI. 

Then first he asks Ms gloomy soul the Cause 
Of his discomfort ; suddenly compares — 
Reflects — and with an angry Spirit draws 
The envious line between his lot and theirs, 
Questioning the Justice of the unequal shares ; 
And from the gathering of this discontent, 
Where there is strength, Revolt his standard rears ; 
Where there is weakness, evermore finds vent 
The sharp annoying cry of sorrowful complaint. 



A VOICE FROM THE FACTORIES. 333 

LIL 

Therefore should Mercy, gentle and serene, 
Sit by the Ruler's side, and share his Throne : — 
Watch with unerring eye the passing scene, 
And bend her ear to mark the feeblest groan ; 
Lest due Authority be overthrown, 
And they that ruled perceive (too late confess'd !) 
Permitted Power might still have been their own, 
Had they but watch'd that none should be oppress'd — 
No just complaint despised — no Wrong left unredress'd. 



LIIL 

Nor should we, Christians in a Christian land, 
Forget who smiled on helpless infancy, 
And bless'd them with divinely gentle hand. — 
" Suffer that little children come to me :" 
Such were His words to whom we bow the knee ! 
These to our care the Saviour did commend ; 
And shall we His bequest treat carelessly, 
Who yet our full protection would extend 
To the lone Orphan child left by an Earthly Friend ? 



334 A VOICE FROM THE FACTORIES. 

LIV. 

No ! rather what the Inspired Law imparts 
To guide our ways, and make our path more sure ; 
Blending with Pity (native to our hearts), 
Let us to these, who patiently endure 
Neglect, and penury, and toil, secure 
The innocent hopes that to their age belong : 
So, honouring Him, the Merciful and Pure, 
Who watches when the Oppressor's arm grows strong, — 
And helpeth them to right — the Weak — who suffer wrong ! 



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